Full Red Jacket
by Srelex
Summary: A story of the war of RA3, from the perspective of soldiers from different sides.
1. Chapter I: Dunkerque

_16__th__ September, 1973_

_Encoded transmission from Colonel Jacques Depaul of the 16__th__ European Allied Reconnaissance Division to Field Marshal Robert Bingham_

_Regarding: Skirmish at Dunkerque _

_At 0900 hours yesterday, Soviet forces pushing towards Calais via Belgium engaged our forces present just outside Dunkerque. Our troops there were facing at least two Soviet tank groups of unknown number and composition, among other armor, supported by Dreadnaught bombardment vessels off the coast. They possessed inadequate ammunition, supplies, and were outnumbered greatly. Owing to the general treatment of civilians by Soviet troops thus far, our priority was evacuating civilians by any means necessary, either further west into the country or across the channel to Britain._

_Despite the odds, our troops there managed to hold off incoming Soviet assault waves, taking heavy losses, and pulled out when the majority of civilians were evacuated. Following this, the Soviets proceeded to seize the town and at the time of writing are currently heading at a very quick rate towards Calais. With our defensive in Europe collapsing, it is my belief that they intend to stage an amphibious invasion of the United Kingdom at the first opportunity. If they succeed in this, Europe will be theirs and the war will be virtually lost. However, if our soldiers can display the same courage as the troops of the 16__th__ Recon Division, they will not have the pleasure of doing so._

_End transmission._

"INCOMING!"

Private Jean-Paul Dupin dived into the mud as a mortar shell exploded several meters to his left, showering him with dirt and grass. The old stone wall separating two fields that served as his only cover began to fall apart as hails of bullets and shells chipped away it. Dupin desperately returned fire with his M4 carbine, spraying fire over the wall, with the knowledge that he wasn't likely to hit anything. But with what felt like the entire Red Army just across the field, at least he could go with the knowledge that he had died trying.

"Yo! Private! Get ya ass up and show some balls!" Sergeant Irving, US Marine now serving with Allied European forces, was kneeling by the wall beside him, firing back with an M2 Browning machinegun, the dirt around his feet covered in steaming ejected round casings. Typical American, thought Dupin. The wrath of Hell was upon him, and all he could do was shout like some gung-ho muscled fool out of a Hollywood movie. Holding onto his SPECTRA helmet, Dupin reloaded his gun and cautiously peeked over the field. Most of what he could see was obscured with smoke, with the field reduced to a brown, ashen patch dotted with burned, twisted skeletons of wood that were once trees. Inside the smoke lurked massive, bulbous shapes—no doubt Soviet tanks, that would crush them like insects in seconds. All he could hear was automatic gunfire, the occasional burst of a tank cannon, and yelling in half-a-dozen languages. He remembered when he had signed up upon the outbreak of total war last year, the slick video adverts, the beaming officers at the Parisian recruitment office, the opportunity to fight for freedom with the most advanced weapons in the world against the inexorable march of Soviet tyranny. What a goddamn fool he had been.

"Heads up! Heat, inbound!" Dupin looked up as the screaming noise of jet turbines drowned all other sounds of battle. He saw the distinctive shape of two Vindicator bombers zip overhead in the blink of an eye, and then seconds later an explosion erupted in the field, pelting him with dirt, hot metal and the occasional chunk of burnt flesh that no doubt once belonged to a hapless Soviet conscript.

"That brought us some time, but our air support here is too limited to totally stop 'em. Move back to marker B! We'll regroup there." Dupin took one last glance at the smoke-covered field as he scooped up his rifle and backpack and followed Irving down the country path, heading through poppy-filled fields that would no doubt be in the same state as that field within a few minutes. Even the Great War of 1914-18 hadn't inflicted such devastation upon this land. Looking ahead, he could faintly see the roofs and steeples of Dunkerque over some trees, with the odd column of smoke caused by sporadic Soviet artillery bombardment. Across Europe, this scene had been repeated a thousand times, with Allied forces collapsing under the weight of the Soviet juggernaut. With the capture of Allied HQ at Geneva and Germany fallen, it was only a matter of time before Cherdenko's portrait hung in every house. But Dupin would rather die in battle, than live to see such a nightmare world.

He and Irving slowed down as they reached 'Marker B', a single howitzer among a clump of wild grass, about a hundred meters or so from the town boundaries, with small clusters of trees to their sides and the path to their front. At the howitzer were Prideux and Lefevre, soldiers of the French army, Hollister, a British SAS commando, and Johnson, a Canadian Peacekeeper, his blue armor and visor splattered with mud and dotted with marks made by many a bullet grazing. All of them stood tense, weapons at the ready, apart from Hollister, calmly smoking a cigarette and sitting on a rock. With much of the rest of the tatters of the 16th Recon in the town trying to stop the citizens from completely shitting themselves at the prospect of Soviet conscripts coming in and looting their homes, they were all that was left to guard this side of the town. Irving had been screaming into a radio for reinforcements over the course of an hour before the Soviets had attacked; however, with the Reds blitzkrieging towards Paris and major Allied installations on the French North coast, command had understandably declined. That didn't change the fact that they were, not too fine to put a point, more or less fucked.

"Alright guys, let's review the situation." Barked Irving. "We have to the best of our knowledge a large Soviet armor and infantry force bearing on our position. Our air support is limited, and though we've got a tactical airbase down in the town Soviet AA will make things difficult. If we try and alter our position, we make ourselves available for a missile strike by Soviet offshore vessels. We probably won't make out if alive, but if we don't, then by hell let's leave something for us all to remember by." He paused as Prideux translated for Lefevre, who spoke little English.

"You heard him, guys." Growled Johnson, loading his shotgun. Dupin rolled his eyes. He could not understand why command was making 'Peacekeepers' such as Johnson so widespread. For crying out loud, that blue armor make them a bullseye for any Ivan with a gun and a sense of aim, and shotguns? In open battle? But with such a long line of fucked decisions from command, such as their refusal to launch counterattacks and restricting access to the Athena SatNet to mobile vehicles, he shouldn't have been too surprised.

"We got somet'ing." Murmured Prideux, readying his Javelin missile launcher. On the path ahead, a Soviet Hammer tank was rumbling into view out of the smoke, the turret swivelling from side to side. Instinctively, Hollister dived towards the howitzer, adjusted it and fired, the boom scattering dust around him. Dupin barely managed to cover his ears as the shell luckily managed to strike the exposed shell conveyor from the turret to the gun, blasting the tank apart.

"That'll probably be just a scout." Said Hollister through clenched teeth as he stood back up, adjusting his beret. "The rest will be coming soon, and they'll be pissed."

"From what I've got from tac-com at the town, the commies haven't got much in the way of ground attack airpower or missile launchers. As their conventional artillery crews have yet to grasp the concept of aimin', all we gotta worry about is an assload of armor and Ivans who'd like nothing more than to tear your balls off and ram 'em up your ass." Added Irving. "How many shells we got left for that thing?"

"Five." Sighed Hollister, indicating a crate beside the howitzer.

"Guess beggars can't be choosers. Now heads up!" Earth erupted into the air around them as mortars came down. Up ahead, Sickle anti-infantry vehicles, clattering on their spider-like legs, scuttled out of the smoke, with Hammers behind them. There were merits to the design of the Sickle—it was useful in its original purpose for crowd control, and it could traverse city streets and rough terrain with ease. What the designers who had approved the military version hadn't taken into account was that if you took off a leg, all you were left with was a useless pile of scrap.

Quickly rolling into position behind a pile of sandbags, Prideux adjusted the laser sights on his missile launcher, aimed and fired, just as the tank fired, the shell impacting just ahead of their position. Streaking forward, the projectile struck the joint of one of the Sickle's forward legs, causing it to topple onto the ground, blocking the vehicles behind it. At the same time, Hollister fired a magnesium grenade via the launcher built into his M16, striking the forward treads of the main Hammer tank. Skidding out of control, the tank was overturned as the one behind it pushed it aside. Soviet conscripts, yelling battle cries, charged forward. Calmly, Dupin and Irving aimed and fired, blasting them down into the mud. With smoke rising from the carnage ahead, and with the road blocked by the two ruined vehicles, Hollister loaded another shell and fired, impacting straight into the midst of them. More explosions came from ahead as engines and ammunition caught fire, creating a pile-up of wrecked, smouldering vehicles on the path ahead.

"That'll slow 'em down." Grinned Hollister. "Won't be surprised if they try flanking us now. Keep your eyes open, boys."

"_Oui._" Acknowledged Prideux, glancing to the edge. Dupin braced himself when suddenly a dark shape burst out of the column of smoke rising from the pileup, sailed through the air, and landed almost literally right in front of them. He found himself staring right down the six barrels of a heavy Gatling cannon fixed to the bulbous main section of a Sickle, with the gunner behind it grinning like a maniac. He froze in fear as one of the other three Gatling guns on the machine swivelled in another direction, with the others desperately blazing away at it. Revving up, the gun fired, making a noise that Dupin could only compare to some sort of demonic lawnmower. Poor Lefevre was the one who took the brunt of the burst, exploding in a shower of blood and internal organs as he was hit with hundreds of rounds at once. Seconds later, Dupin found himself being knocked to the ground as Irving lobbed a grenade through one of the hatches atop the vehicle, with the gunner's expression turning from an evil grin to a lock of shock as it landed on his lap, exploding seconds later. Collapsing to the ground, the Sickle began to belch smoke.

Stepping over the bloody pile of cloth and meat that was once Lefevre, Prideux clambered onto the wrecked Sickle and grabbed the rear Gatling cannon as another wave of conscripts charged towards them. He squeezed the trigger and mowed them down, as the others took cover behind the wrecked vehicle and picked off stragglers. Ignoring the deafening screaming of the Gatling gun and the shrill rattling of his comrade's automatic weapons, Dupin gunned down a conscript who was in the middle of opening a Molotov cocktail. Hearing clanking noises above the gunfire, he glimpsed a bulky, metallic figure heading down the road towards them, bolts of static dancing around it. A goddamn tesla soldier. Merde.

Prideux swivelled the commandeered Gatling cannon in its direction and figured, but paused as the rounds bounced harmlessly off its armor. However, moments later, the thing toppled into the ground as a grenade launched by Hollister exploded in front of it, knocking it to the floor, leaving it floundering like a beached whale. Abruptly, the suit short-circuited and exploded, spitting blue sparks of Tesla energy and fire. Dupin grinned as another Hammer pushing down the road ground to a halt as the EMP generator in the wrecked suit went into overload, with the commander sticking his head out of the turret shouting his head off. Aiming carefully, Dupin peered down his lens and squeezed the trigger, watching as his head burst open like a ripe fruit.

Suddenly, there was a rumble, and the blockade of wrecked vehicles ahead was blown away. Rumbling out of the smoke was a sight Dupin had only seen in news reports or briefing videos. An Apocalypse tank. A fucking Apocalypse tank. A beast that could decimate entire armor divisions and shrug off Vindicator bombs. Dupin watched in horror as the thing consumed the disabled Hammer tank with its forward grinders, and then pressed on inexorably towards them. Two flashes came from the muzzles of its guns, and suddenly the ruined Sickle was blown onto its side, sending Prideux onto the floor with several dozen pieces of shrapnel in his leg. Desperately, Johnson scooped up the Javelin launcher and fired the remaining rockets at it, then chucked it aside when they did little more than scorch the armor.

"Shit, shit, shit!" spat Irving as Hollister's grenades did likewise little effect on the advancing behemoth. "Well guys, at least we did good up to here. Pleasure serving with you all."

Hollister stopped firing as his last magazine ran out, with the guns of the massive tank bearing down on them. Dupin felt a sudden adrenaline rush as an idea got into his head. Yes, it was suicidal, yes, it was foolhardy, but...fuck it. If he was going down, let it be this way.

Tearing a grenade from his belt, he ran down the road towards the massive tank as it fired down on their position, blasting apart their howitzer, the blast knocking Hollister and Johnson to the dirt. Sprinting forwards, Dupin finally reached the tank, wondering why the Soviet designers hadn't bothered with something as elementary as anti-infantry weapons. Clambering aboard, he avoided the howling grinders at the front and climbed onto the main turret, unpinning the grenade with his finger as he opened the main hatch. Looking down, he found himself peering down onto a stoic Soviet tank driver, who looked up with a confused expression.

"Au revoir." Smiled Dupin as he threw the grenade down, and then leapt off the tank, as a muffled boom came from within. Hitting the grass straight on, he picked himself up and ran into the foliage, ignoring the pain in his body. Behind him, the tank ground to a halt as smoke came from within. Then, with a deafening and satisfyingly large explosion, the turret was blown off, reducing the behemoth to another useless wreck on the road.

"Great fucking job!" called Hollister as Dupin walked back. "And bang in the nick of fucking time too! Civvies are almost evacuated, and we've got a Riptide coming here to extract us, ETA two minutes."

"You were always the lucky asshole, eh, Jean-Paul?" grinned Prideux as Johnson tended to his mauled leg, injecting him with a needle of anaesthetic. Dupin looked down at the road, littered with vehicle wrecks and bloodied corpses. Although he could not help but feel proud, he couldn't help but realise that this little victory would barely dent the Soviet advance. Still, at least he had a story to tell his grandchildren...if he could survive the rest of this goddamn war.


	2. Chapter II: Le Havre

_Excerpt from Pravda, 27__th__ September 1973:_

_Further victories against the Allied capitalist-fascists have occurred today thanks to the bravery of our Red Army and the inspired leadership of Comrade Premier Cherdenko. Our forces sweep aside their inferior military in France, and Denmark, Holland, and North Germany are due to fall within the next month, according to learned sources from within the Kremlin._

_One such example of the bravery and selflessness of our soldiers in liberating the oppressed proletariats of Europe occurred yesterday in Le Havre. With Allied morale collapsing and enemy tactics inferior, our troops were able to storm the town and push the enemy back to the Channel, adding yet another victory in our long list of triumphs. In response to our constant victory streaks, the Americans and other Allied nations outside of Europe announce they are dispatching reinforcements in a desperate attempt to slow us down. Our analysts have made it clear that their no-doubt meagre backup will not arrive in time; and even if it does, it shall prove irrelevant. _

_The Premier continues to ask for more brave young men and women to join our great army as the day of victory grows ever more closer. Time is running out for those who want to share in the glory of our ultimate triumph, as the death of the Allie's tired capitalist ideology approaches._

_**_

"Do not falter, comrades! Victory is slow close that we can almost taste it! Drive the fascist dogs to the channel, and it will be a matter of time before we can drive them across the Atlantic, until the fools find they have nowhere to run!"

Private Shurik Belikov glanced up at Commissar Liadov blared out of a microphone, with activity stirring all around him. Tanks rumbled by as soldiers around him packed up their tents and prepared their weapons. Here he was, just a seventeen-year old boy from Smolensk, at the eve of the ultimate victory of the Soviet Union. He could taste the salt of the Channel from here, and in the distance the roofs of the coastal town of Le Havre, one of the few remaining Allied strongholds here in Northern France. Paris and Berlin had fell; Denmark and Holland were crumbling under siege, and Britain was fretting like a mad chicken. As he polished his ADK-45 assault rifle and brushed his uniform down as the commissar went about inspecting the troops, he imagined himself walking through Westminster Square as the red flag was hung from the Big Ben clock tower—or better yet, marching down the Washington Mall as red banners were draped from the White House. His grandchildren would beg to tell him of how he had participated in the great patriotic war to finally eradicate the threat of capitalism forever.

"Now listen, small-dicked peasant faggots." Comrade Colonel Palenko, an unshaved Ukrainian thug who was either always constantly chomping on cheap party-approved cigarettes or swilling from vodka, walked down the line of conscripts that had formed. "As you can see, we are on the doorstep of the last Allied base in the area. They are no doubt pissing their pants in there, hoping that we go easy on them. Well, we fucking won't. Our tanks, gunships and artillery will smash their noses while you faggots move in and kick them in the balls. Some of you will probably die. But you should then die happy in the knowledge that you have helped bring us a step closer to humiliating the bastards once and for all. You understand?"

The conscripts vigorously nodded and shouted affirmatives with varying levels of enthusiasm. The line then dispersed as the growling of vehicle engines drowned out all other noise. Shurik found himself swelling with patriotic pride as a wing of MiGs screamed overhead, followed shortly by clattering waves of Twinblade gunships. In the distance, he could hear the booming of guns and the chattering of automatic weapons. So far, he had not yet experienced a proper battle, having been kept in reserves all the time. This was going to change. He had resolved to be able to go home boasting of how many fascist stooges he had killed.

Conscripts covered their ears as a volley of V4 rockets screamed overhead before descending at the direction of the town, followed by muffled explosions. Walking up a hill with streams of his comrades, Shurik finally took in the view of Le Havre, a town dotted with columns of smoke and fire as missiles and artillery shells pounded Allied forces there. On the distant beach he could see Allied troops desperately scrambling into transports positioned there; he smiled and cheered with the others as howitzers pounded the beach, shattering the transports. Further in the distance he could see a dark bulk in the waters of the channel that he vaguely recognized—one of the Allied aircraft carriers, or whatever they were called. No doubt it would soon prove to be little better than target practice for our Dreadnaughts or submarines, he thought, letting his mind fill with the image of Allied vehicles exploding or crumbling under Soviet fire.

Walking down the field, the waves of conscripts began to quicken their pace as tanks rolled down beside them, letting off pot shots at Allied pillboxes dotted around the city boundary. Massed cheers came up from the conscripts as the pillboxes exploded, with Twinblades moving in like boundaries to mop up scattering Allied soldiers. At once, the conscripts began to charge, urahing battle cries and firing their rifles in the direction of the enemy. Shurik broke into a run and began to charge with them, feeling adrenaline flood through his body.

As the conscripts charged towards the outer buildings of the city, the forward waves suddenly found themselves cut down, with the limbs and heads of some of them exploding gorily. More found themselves being blown onto the ground as Allied machinegun emplacements in windows opened fire. Shurik glimpsed an Allied sniper on a roof before ducking onto the grass as his comrades were cut down around him. Screams and gunfire filled the air, with shrapnel-ridden men staggering around before sniper rounds imploded within their stomachs. A few that made it past the cordon of fire in the outer alleys of the town were barely able to aim their rifles when Allied soldiers and Peacekeeper troops, hiding in readiness and holed up in buildings, opened fire.

Shurik continued to stick his head into the earth as he wrenched, feeling a taste of vomit in his mouth. Looking up, he saw some of the tanks fire open the buildings as they rolled down the field, and then once again found his adrenaline rush returning as the buildings crumbled into dust, the Allied troops atop and within them screaming in horror. In the corner of his eye, he saw Spetnatz elites in ghillie suits move like ghosts across the field, picking off stragglers with their Dragunovs. He, along with some other surviving comrades, picked themselves up and resumed their charging, ignoring the dozens of bodies spread-eagled on the grass around them, ignoring the stench of blood and smoke, ignoring the booming of tank guns. Far above in the sky, contrails of exhaust snaked among the clouds as Soviet and Allied fighters clashed in dogfights. Buildings deep in the town crumbled as missiles from ground-based launchers and Dreadnaughts in the sea fired.

Shurik found himself moving from muddy earth to solid paved stones as he entered one of the town's outer streets. The corpses of Allied dogs, riddled with shrapnel and debris, lay scattered around some of the roads. A woman's scream came from somewhere nearby, and was muffled moments later. Slowing to a walk to catch his breath, Shurik stopped to look in a shop window filled with radios and televisions. God, the debauchery of capitalism was even worse then they had told him. Who needed all this junk? On the other hand, he thought more reflectively, some of these would look very nice on the table back home in Smolensk...

He snapped back to the situation at hand when gunfire came from nearby. Creeping around a corner, he saw two of his fellows taking cover behind a wrecked car, with Allied soldiers firing at them from a second-storey window across the road. Now would be his chance to show some heroism! He reached inside his combat satchel and picked out a Molotov cocktail. Readying the cocktail, he leaped out of cover and threw the bottle with all his strength. He watched as it sailed through the air and into the window _beside _the one he had been aiming for. A crash came from inside, and the enemy soldiers ceased fire and looked in his direction, bemused. Shurik found himself frozen in fear as their weapons swivelled in his direction. Seconds later, they yelled in shock as more Molotovs hurtled in their direction, with flames bellowing out of the window.

"Thanks for that, comrade!" called one of the other troops in a thick Minsk accent before getting up and running off. Shrugging, Shurik looked as he saw another wing of Twinblades pass overhead, firing at something. The ground juddered under his feet and cascades of dust blew off buildings as the thumping of artillery came from nearby, accompanied by the chattering sound of automatic fire. Shrugging off an increasing sense of disorientation, he followed a group of troops running past, a few of them cradling radios and jewellery. He found himself walking out onto the beach, littered with mangled wrecks of vehicles and smouldering artillery craters. Columns of smoke rose from various points of the sea spread out before him, with the dusk sun casting an appropriate red tint onto the water. Along the beach were several burning buildings, and Shurik recognized among the mangled, twisted corpses half-buried in the sand women and children. He could not ignore the nagging sensation that there was something not right, that he had somehow been deceived. Then he shrugged it off. Premier Cherdenko is always right, he told himself as he walked down the desolate beach. I must fight harder. Let that be the maxim for every soldier who fights on the right side, he thought.


	3. Chapter III: The English Channel

_28th__th__ September, 1973_

_Encoded transmission from Flight Commander Richard Hallington ACAF Dover to Allied European Air Marshal Denis Spotswood_

_Regarding: Channel Engagement_

_At 1600 hours today, the 26__th__ Allied Air Wing engaged multiple airborne hostiles over the English Channel, while defending supply planes bringing troops and supplies from doomed locations in Northern France to defend against what is obviously an imminent Soviet operation to assault the English South Coast. Our aircraft had mild naval support, but Soviet warships in the channel made this difficult._

_Although one of our supply planes was shot down, unfortunately, our squadron took the fight to the enemy and downed most of the enemy planes. I am recommending the leader of the squadron, Charles Dalton, nominally an airman of the RAF for the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal and the Allied Airman's Cross of Bravery for his efforts, along with promotions for his wingmen. Even with Armageddon at our doorstep, it is refreshing to know that our men will still fight to the end._

_End transmission._

_**_

"Alert. Hostile aircraft approaching. 1200 meters and closing."

Flight commander Charles Dalton angrily deactivated his flight computer with a punch. He didn't need a damn machine to tell him the enemy was coming. Damn, back when he joined the RAF and by extension the Allied Combined Air Force what a good pilot needed was a good eye and sharp wits, not a fucking machine telling him when he could have a piss or how many bullets he could fire.

Seated in his F-11X Apollo fighter, moving at slow speed over the English channel near Dover, Dalton glanced out of his cockpit. Seven fighters accompanied him, their pilots as diverse as the rest of the Allied military: there was Dale and Richards from the USAF, Jaeger from the Luftwaffe, Claude from the Free French air forces, Jansen from Holland, and Zadroga from Poland. Not long ago Dalton, as a patriotic Brit, would have felt uncomfortable flying with these shifty foreigners, but with the Ivans a channel away from Blighty, and having seen these chaps in action, he had decided it was worth it. In war, a man needed all the friends he could get.

A tinny voice came from his communications headset. "_Commander! Objective, portside!" _

Dalton glanced out of the windscreen, seeing a quartet of C-130 Hercules transport planes rumbling lethargically through the sky, superimposed over the blue of the channel. Two of them were trailing smoke. He wouldn't be surprised if the Reds were far behind. With Allied airpower overstretched and the Soviets taking out bases in Western Europe, with aircraft being diverted to protect London and bases on the French and English coasts, the Soviets were frighteningly close to achieving air superiority. Well, he thought, let those uncouth bastards come.

"Copy, Richards." Acknowledged Dalton.

"_Cholera jasna!_" swore Zadroga over the radio. "_Dalton, we have Soviet jets, incoming, 11 o'clock!_ "

Dalton glanced at both the windscreen and the radar readout on the dashboard before him. Rapidly approaching were several Soviet MiG jets, backed up with a small number of outdated Sukhoi Su-27s that were clearly being deployed solely to use up their ammo and distract them. Disabling the safeties, he tensed as the squadron banked into position, silently praying not to hear the beeping of the missile lock alert. Then, a single missile streaked overhead, and the squadron broke formation as Soviet jets appeared out of a cloud up ahead.

Dalton fired off countermeasures as MiG Matryoshka rockets streaked around him. He ignored the screaming of his wingmen over the radio. He ignored the roaring of autocannons and the shrieks of missiles. He ignored the babbling of his flight computer. He acquired a target lock on one of the MiGs, and let rip.

Kinetic rounds tore through the fuselage of the enemy fightercraft and sent it spiraling into a burning crash. As he began to relax marginally, the proximity alert started screaming. Bullets and fire-and-forget rockets screamed by him. One of the fucking Sukhois was on his tail. That damn commie pilot thought he was so clever? He'd show him real flying.

Pulling down, he screamed down towards the churning waters below. Sitting immobile in the channel, looking like bricks in a pond from this altitude, was a small cluster of Allied naval vessels—an aircraft carrier and two hydrofoil skiffs. Swiveling upwards, the CIWS gatling cannons aboard the boats started blazing away, bullets spitting by him so close that they could almost be grazing his paint. Behind him, he heard a satisfying explosion, and then pulled up meters above the water, with what was left of his pursuer slamming into the foamy sea.

Moving as fast as g-force would allow him, he could see the sky above filled with contrails of aircraft and jet. He noted one of the Apollos spiraling down in a fireball; according to the tactical readout, it was Dale. Poor bastard; he had barely spoken to him outside of briefing. Any further thoughts of sentimentality vanished when he noted one of the MiGs approaching the Hercules planes, which were now nearly over the coast. Damn him if he'd let that Red have the pleasure of bringing down what happened to be his entire objective.

"_Commander! Requesting backup!_" Jansen's Dutch accent barked out of his headset. Dalton ignored him as he got into position behind the enemy jet as it in turn got behind one of the Hercules planes, which was desperately spitting countermeasures. Just as he prepared to get a lock, the MiG let off a missile barrage, slamming into the hulking cargo plane. Momentarily, Dalton gaped in horror as the Hercules split open, spilling vehicles and men before plummeting down onto the green field of the English coast. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of men and machines. That did it. That fucking did. He felt the need. The need for speed.

Jetting forward, he let off a barrage straight into the bastard's rear, reducing the MiG to a cluster of burning scrap metal. Banking sharply around, he headed back towards the dogfight, and glanced at the strategic readout. Jaeger and Richards were taking damage and were on fire, and although several enemy planes had apparently been taken down they just kept on coming.

"Sorry I took so long, old chaps." Said Dalton onto all channels as he rushed forward, blazing away at the nearest enemy jet, which promptly exploded into flame.

"_You! You are still dangerous._" Said Claude over the radio. Dalton could almost see that Frenchie smile. "_You can be my wingman any time._"

"Bullshit! You can still be mine!" Dalton fired off countermeasures as a MiG banked in his direction, before acquiring a target lock and punching it out of the sky with a burst of kinetic fire. Adrenaline flooded his body as he went another enemy plane, which was firing off flares like there was no tomorrow. He smiled. He had been petitioning for Allied aerospace engineers to add something as trivial as missiles to the Apollo; but in situations like this, it just worth to see the bastards panicking. He squeezed the trigger on his joystick, and the fucker burst into flames.

"_They're pulling back! Bastards are pulling back!"_ yelled Richards over the squadron channel.

"_Commander? Do we stay or pursue?_" growled Jaeger.

"We pursue." Said Dalton calmly, and then slammed down on the throttle.

Resuming formation, the squadron accelerated after the fleeing Soviet aircraft. From here, Dalton could see the French coast, with columns of smoke rising from fields and villages. He could only imagine what those poor ground grunts were experiencing, while here he was, safe in a comfortable cockpit, guaranteed a quick death should an enemy get him. Times like this, he could understand why the grunts had such animosity to flyboys like him. But that was irrelevant. As they bore down on the French coast, with Soviet vessels spread out among the coastline like a deck of cards, he noted what looked like entire supply bases set up on the beaches.

It was then that the flak started. Black clouds of death appeared out them, accompanied by the booming of guns. Instinctively, the squadron broke formation as anti-air emplacements down below started up, along with Bullfrog combat boats sitting on the shore. How the fuck could he have been so stupid? How the fuck could he have not seen this coming? Veering away, Dalton felt his heart leap as he saw Claude's Apollo spout flames and then plummet down. Did he managed to eject? Irrelevant, considering he'd either end up shot or in a prison camp. Warning lights lit up on the dashboard as flak shrapnel cut lines in the hull, causing the starboard fuel tank to leak.

"Alright then chaps," he said through gritted teeth as he weaved around bursts of flak, "I'd say it's time we went home."

He got no reply save static. No doubt the reds had thrown up an ECM field. Gunning it, he saw the others streaking back across the channel to the green fields across. At least the remaining transport planes had definitely made it, and they had took down a good deal of enemy planes; that was all that mattered.

Then the missile lock warning light came on.

He glanced at the tactical readout; a single MiG, on his tail. His ammo was low, his fuel gauge was rapidly dropping, and his thrusters were being clogged up with flak shrapnel. He fired off most of his countermeasures as the MiG let rip with missiles, which exploded around him, shaking him in his cockpit. More warning lights came on as the engine and thrusters began to trail smoke, as his visor and cockpit canopy began to steam up with heat. Flying low, he could see the familiar White cliffs of Dover ahead. Glancing at his fuel gauge, it seemed he only had a minute or two of flying left. Another missile exploded to starboard. Now fifty seconds. He had only once chance of getting out of this alive; it was potentially suicidal, but what did he have left to lose?

Positioning himself directly in front of the enemy fighter, he let more fuel flood into the thrusters, increasing the level of smoke. With the cliffs rapidly coming up, he thumped the eject button, then braced himself as he was shot out of the cockpit and into the air. Looking downwards, he saw his Apollo jet straight towards the cliffs, with the MiG behind it engulfed in its smoke. Slamming straight into the cliffs, the Apollo was shortly followed by the enemy fighter, which impacted into the chalk just above it as the pilot desperately attempted to pull up.

Dalton let his parachute expand and relaxed as the wind guided him to the grass near the cliff edge. Shedding his parachute, he let off a flare as he saw his squadron streak overhead.

"_You okay, mein freunde?_" came Jaeger's deep voice out of his radio.

"Right as rain. I'll meet you at base." He watched the Apollos jet away into the distance, and began to walking through the field towards the motorway in the distance. Looking over his shoulder at the channel, he could still see the smoke rising from the French coast, and the faint outline of what was clearly a Soviet invasion fleet. The turning point of the war was almost upon him; either Britain would prevail, or it would end with red banners hanging from Buckingham Palace. Damned if he was gonna let anything other than the former happen.

As he continued walking through the wet grass and the moss-covered rocks, he noted how little he was thinking of the two wingmen he had lost today. So much war and violence had desensitized him to such losses. Countless brave men were dying every day; at the end, what was two more? Sentiment did not win battles. It had no place among those who were striving for nothing less than victory.


	4. Chapter IV: Portsmouth

_Excerpt from the New York Times, 1__st__ November 1973:_

_Earlier today it was confirmed that a significant Soviet naval, amphibious and aerial force gathered off the coast of Northern France launched an all-out assault on the southern coast of Britain, focusing mainly on Brighton, while launching raids into other locations. As of writing, the outcome is unclear. British Prime Minister Roland Gibbs has announced the evacuation of multiple towns at risk of Soviet incursion, and has instated martial law in London and other major English metropolitan areas, with the support of Allied Peacekeeper divisions based in the United Kingdom. _

_With Allied forces having to this point suffered major defeats and still awaiting backup from extra-European sources, military experts working for this newspaper have soberly decided that the Soviets will succeed in their landings and will seize south England in a matter of days. President Ackerman and Marshal Bingham have as of yet issued no reports. _

_We at the New York Times urge our readership to remain hopeful and pray that the free world will persevere in this dark hour. _

_**_

"Captain? I've got bad news."

Captain William Keller, officer of the United States Navy and by extension of the Allied Combined Naval Fleets, stoically gazed out of the bridge viewports of the Allied aircraft carrier _UAFS Spruance. _Through them he could see the flight deck of the carrier, waters of the English Channel, and part of the island of Portsea. He could hear the buzzing of blowtorches and wielding machinery as engineers and repair drones scrambled over damaged aircraft and aerial vehicles on the deck and as maintenance boats bobbed around the carrier fixing gashes in the hull. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck as the fact that his situation was so goddamn hopeless swept over him. Slowly, he turned around.

"I can't possibly see how this can get any worse, First Mate, but give it to me."

First Mate Frazer nodded. "London has just told us the commies have launched an all-out attack on Brighton. They're launching smaller subsidiary attack forces on other locations—including here. Exact composition of any enemy forces we can expect to face is unknown. Ranged missile bombardment and use of magnetic satellites is probable, apparently."

"You're taking this all very well, First Mate. I commend you."

"Just doing my job, sir." Stuttered Frazer.

Keller walked over to the tactical map screen spread out in the center of the bridge, with other crewmen seated at consoles lining the walls, studying readouts and reports. Satellite uplink was jammed, so all that was visible on the map was a wireframe computerized image of the English south coast. Their communications array—and a whole lot of equipment—had been damaged in a skirmish the day before. With Allied forces on the breaking point, Bingham had informed him that he, and this single damaged carrier, were to form the defence of Portsmouth, potentially a major beachhead for a Soviet invasion of Europe. The carrier's capabilities had been stymied, its complement damaged, and the crew was demoralized and panicking. Only an hour ago had he almost shot two engineers for attempting to desert to land. He could sympathise with them.

"Our Sky Nights are crippled, but still operational, and we still have two available Blackout missiles." Continued Frazer. "We've also got a couple of Apollos being repaired on the flight deck. Our chances are minimal, but not zero."

"Morse code message from command." Called a crewman from the communications console. "Soviet forces reported landed at Brighton, heavy naval backup. Orders are to remain where we are."

"We are, to the best of our knowledge, one of the few remaining, if not the last, sources of heavy and ranged naval support in the English Channel." Announced Keller, speaking up. "Were I extremely foolhardy or a hero in a Hollywood movie, I would disregard those orders with abandon. But I am not. We are gonna stand our ground here, we're gonna chew up those godless fucking reds will throw at us, and boy are we gonna make our people proud! Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir!" acknowledged the bridge crew in unison.

"Nice reassurance." Said Frazer quietly aside to him.

"Sometimes a little corny speeches can be the only things that keep a man fighting when he's got no chance." Sighed Keller. "Get the Sky Knights ready for takeoff. The Apollos too—as long as they can fly and fire, I'm not interested in what the grease monkeys on the flight deck think."

"Understood."

Keller barely had time to register Keller's acknowledgement when there was a muffled screaming sound, followed by the boom of an explosion. The carrier rocked slightly as he ran over to the side windows. Smoke was billowing from flaming buildings along Portsmouth harbour, with the dissipating contrails of missiles trailing from their source. God help me, he thought. It's time.

"Sky Knight's in the air!" reported a crewman. "Bringing up visual on source of fire in approximately twenty seconds!"

"I don't need a visual on the fucker doing this." Snarled Keller. "Get all aircraft in the air. Now."

On the flight deck, engineers and crewmen rushed below decks as Sky Knight UCAVs rose out from the hangar bay out of an opening, with the Apollos revving up their engines. Black-and-white visual feeds from cameras built into the drones flickered into view on monitors above the bridge viewports. Alarm klaxons began blaring on all decks. Keller tensed himself. There was the option of screwing orders, abandoning ship, and running to fight another day—but damn if he did that.

"ECM effective?" he snapped.

"No, sir, but given our position and the absence of Soviet satellite support over this area I don't think they can accurately acquire us as a target, short of blindfire."

"And blindfire's what they'll do." If there was one thing those Ivans loved, it was overkill. God, what he would give for some AA-capable craft to cover him. But with Soviet submarines infesting every damn square metre...a terrible realization suddenly hit him. "Sonar! We got anything?"

"Nothing save fishes, sir." He relaxed. But likely once the Reds caught onto him they'd send in their damned Akulas. Until then, though, he had no choice but to hold firm and kick copious amounts of ass.

"We got visual!" announced Frazer. Glancing up at the monitors, he could see a grainy, black-and-white image of a Soviet Dreadnaught missile ship accompanied by some smaller craft—Stingray attack boats, by the looks of them.

"Apollos report mild Soviet air support in vicinity. They're engaging now." Through the viewports, he could faintly see twisting trails of exhaust snaking around in the clouds, with flashes of missiles and countermeasures. God help the poor flyboys, he thought. He could only think about what they could be facing up there. Quickly, he turned back to the situation at hand.

"Target the Dreadnaught, Knights three to five."

"Copy, sir." Through the visual feed, he could see several of the attack drones each expending their munitions onto the lumbering vessel. He saw several explosions tear into the foredeck and amidships, and a geyser of water erupt beside it as one of the bombs missed. By rights, the ship would now be on its way to meet the fishes—but Soviet vessels were tough bastards. He'd learned that from experience—the hard way.

"Soviet vessel confirmed hit. Damage extensive. Status of firing capability unclear." Reported a crewman.

"Remainder of Knights are pulling back for fuel replenishing." Announced Frazer.

"How many more runs do we have the supply capability for?"

"Five."

Damn. Each run would have to be perfectly timed. Those drones had low fuel capability, and burned what gas they had like hell. Their ordnance capacity was limited as well. Sometimes he felt like tracking down the guys who worked at Allied design bureaus and pointing out their respective fuck-ups in no uncertain terms, but of course there were the constraints of budget and supply. Still, sometimes fighting like this was good—it made a good tactician think and improvise. But in this case? Oh no.

"Report from Apollos, sir. Outcome of air combat as yet undecided. They also claim to have spotted naval reinforcements heading in our direction. ETA unknown."

Keller's hopes raised as he felt the adrenaline of excitement start to build up in him—and then he stopped himself. It was doubtful they were even heading for him—most likely to support whoever was fighting at Brighton. After all, the only way to avoid crushing disappointment was not to hope for too much. Trying to establish communications would be an option, if it wasn't for the risk of giving their position away to the Reds and the fact that he didn't know their exact location and frequency.

"Sir, we got incoming." Looking up, Keller could see Soviet attack boats coming into view in the distance, with a slanting column of smoke indicating the limping, damaged Dreadnaught. There was the option of frying them with one of the EMP rockets—but then there was the problem of just how many attack groups were closing in. Still, when in doubt, going for the straightforward option was usually good.

"Launch a second wave. Drones one to three target the boats, four to five on the Dreadnaught."

"Copy."

He watched as the drones rose out of the hangar opening, one-by-one. Up ahead, the attack boats were closing in rapidly. The Dreadnaught was also slowing down—was it readying the missiles? Restraining the urge to break down into panic, he watched as the first few drones dropped their munitions onto the first two boats, which blew apart in satisfyingly large blasts of metal and water. The last two moved in on the Dreadnaught, and also released their ordnance—seconds after three rockets burst out of its launcher.

"Shit! We got moving capability?" he shouted.

"Er...negative."

"Brace for impact!"

He closed his eyes as the bridge went silent. A moment passed. Then, there was a screaming sound as several buildings on the nearby island were shattered by an explosion. A moment later, and a geyser of water erupted literally meters in front of the bow of the carrier, knocking everything that wasn't bolted down onto the floor. Finally, an explosion suddenly engulfed the forepart of the vessel, blasting everything on the flight deck back. Consoles in the bridge flickered and alarms came from below decks.

Picking himself up, Keller waited for his vision to focus and grabbed onto a railing as his head swam. Glancing out of the viewport, he could see the Dreadnaught slowly disappearing below the waves, surrounded by scorched wreckage. The front part of the carrier was completely engulfed in smoke, but she still seemed intact—yes, the shipbuilders had built it to withstand firepower like that well. Whether or not she could still fight was another question entirely.

"Damage report!"

"Maintenance bay one is gone, sir. We've lost half our drone capability. Engineering reports at least six hull rupturing. Structural integrity...questionable, according to this." Reported a crewman hoarsely.

"Ready the lifeboats." Said Keller calmly.

"That's not all." Announced Frazer. "We got what looks like a Twinblade squadron incoming. Probably laden with Spetnatz."

"Apollos available?"

"We've lost contact. Either they were taken down, or headed to one of our airbases. Either way, not getting them."

"We're beyond fucked."

"The feeling is mutual, sir."

He racked his brain for a solution. A standard Soviet gunship wing would easily tear them apart and mop up all survivors. From there, whatever they were carrying could seize the town—it had been evacuated, so it wasn't like there was anyone to stop them—and set up a beachhead for further landing forces. They had no option for conventional AA or air support. Then, he hit on a possibility. It would require insane timing and precision, but he had little choice.

"Ready Blackout 1." He snapped. "Get all non-bridge personnel off this ship. Set the missile to blindfire configuration."

Through the viewport, he could see a cluster of dots appear against the sky, growing larger rapidly. He could almost see the grinning, demonic commie fuckers inside each one, commissars who wanted nothing less than to strip free men and women of their rights. They were probably thinking that they'd blast him into nothing and tear-ass through the rest of England. Well, he'd show the fuckers that they had another goddamn thing coming.

"Blackout ready for launch?"

"Affirmative." Reported a crewman.

"Tech crews abandoning vessel." Reported Frazer.

"Excellent. Aim missile at Dreadnaught wreck, alt 50. Ready to remote detonate on my command."

He stood back as the missile rose almost lethargically out of its silo beside the command island, before accelerating and rising upwards. The Twinblades were close enough to be distinct now. Nervously, he watched as the rocket flew forwards parallel to the gunship wing. As the two approached, he mentally calculated the discharge spread. Would it be enough? Hell with it.

"Detonate."

The missile imploded in mid-air, releasing a blue flash. The gunships juddered to a halt, as if uncertain as to what to do. Then, their momentum carrying them forward, they spiralled downwards into the sea, impacting into the water like stones. Keller exhaled a sigh of relief. God had certainly been watching over him today. Now all that was needed was to limp back to a dry dock and undergo repairs. Yes, there was still life left in this old bucket.

Then Frazer spoke.

"Sir, sonar's got underwater contacts."

Akulas.

Shit.

"Tech crews are away?" he asked a crewman.

"Affirmative, they're making landfall as we speak...shit, shit, shit, torpedoes incoming!" Frazer stood and braced himself, noticing the curved conning tower of an Akula attack sub poking out of the waves ahead. "Impact in approximately five seconds...it's been a pleasure serving with you, sir."

"Likewise. I guess I should give some overlong sentimental speech, but we haven't got time, and our duty together should speak for itself. Good luck, gentlemen."

An explosion came from amidships, and the consoles flickered out. Keller stood silently as the carrier groaned, before being rocked by another torpedo impact. There was no chance of him miraculously escaping. There was no way out of this apart from drowning or dying of lack of oxygen. As the carrier began to rapidly sink into the water, he felt his Colt holstered by his thigh. He had done his duty to the end. Now, as his ship sank into the waves, he took the gun to his temple, and prepared to go out with a bang.


	5. Interlude: London

"Field Marshal, all reports indicate the defence of Brighton is a success. Subsidiary Soviet landings at other locations are confirmed to be unsuccessful."

"See? What'd I tell ya? I knew that boy got the stuff in him!"

Bingham glanced from intelligence officer McKenna to President Ackerman's face imposed on the communications screen on the wall across. Blue-uniformed Allied officers stood around a map of western Europe covering the table that took up much of the dimly-lit room, marked with troop movements and division indicators. Fleet elements in the sea marked for chrono transportation were labelled appropriately. Bingham didn't know how the hell they had done it, but they'd managed to kick the Ivans back across the channel.

"Indeed, Mr. President. I trust it is prudent to transport the reinforcements you promised us? We are still in a weakened position, and another Soviet attack wave could very easily break us." He said calmly, talking towards the president.

"As you wish, Marshal. Give my regards to Cherdenko when they come." He smiled. "Ackerman out." The screen flickered to blackness. Bingham turned towards the other officers. Here, in one of the most secure Allied command bunkers beneath Central London, he could speak without any of it being filtered down to Allied intelligence centers in Vauxhall or Langley.

"Finally the damn Yankees are getting their act together. God, that Ackerman's almost as bad as that McCarthy bastard they elected back in the 50s." The others nodded in agreement.

"Sir, I'd like to object to your statement that our defeat is possible. Satellite intelligence indicates that the Soviets will not be able to mobilize another invasion force for a second attack." It was Douglas, an Afro-British officer. Bingham didn't approve of all these damn negroes and women filling up Allied command circles lately, but he supposed that desperate times called for desperate measures. Still, he was nostalgic for the early days of the confrontation of the free world with the Soviet Union three decades ago—in the days when they didn't have to crawl to the damn Yanks to help and women and darkies knew their place.

"Of course not. I merely exaggerated the situation to Ackerman so that we could get those damn reinforcements. Yankees only act when they're threatened, or when they feel like it—see how they gave up Hawaii to Japan back in '41 just because they lost a few ships."

Douglas smiled and nodded, and continued speaking in his east London accent. "Very shrewd of you, sir. Now, intelligence tells me we now have the capability to land reinforcements on the channel, and retake the French North coast completely. By the way, Giles is requesting we launch bombing runs on the Soviet presence on Calais, to guarantee they can't try anything more."

"Grant him permission. Inform Spotswood he should be expecting American revitalization soon."

"Yes, sir."

"There is still the problem of Cannes, Herr Marshal." Berthold von Stauffenberg, representative of the German Bundeswehr, chipped in. "Our sources there inform us that the military and political personnel under siege cannot hold out for much longer. As soon as we re-establish a beachhead in France, we should make that a priority."

Bingham resisted turning his nose up at him. His father had fought in the Great War of 1914-18, and he knew what sort of people Krauts could be. Still, as long as they were on his side and willing to fight hard. He had fought alongside them in places like Poland and Lithuania back in the late 40s, and although their women were ugly and their food disgusting, he couldn't help but admire their tenacity. Besides, they were still better than the Spanish.

"Your advice is acknowledged, von Stauffenberg." Sighed Bingham. "Unfortunately, there is still the matter of retaking France. Lieutenant?" He turned to the perky, pretty little lady in the tight uniform standing beside him. Although he believed that war was no situation for a woman, there were advantages to their presence.

"Yes, Marshal?" she chirruped in a Manchester accent.

"What do we know about Soviet defences in Central France?"

"Still working on it. We do know that they're readjusting their magnetic satellites over the Paris area. However, our space development center at Cape Kennedy reports that our cyro-satellites will be ready for launch and operational shortly."

"Excellent." Said Bingham. Technology had advanced so much in the last few decades—when he had started his career, some of the best weapons in the Allied repertoire included machines like the Spitfire, or the Horten bomber. Now, there were all kinds of dazzling machinery such as teleportation and computes, thanks to centers like FutureTech or Massivesoft. Bingham didn't really understand how any of it worked, but as long as it was useful, he wasn't going to inquire too much.

"Now, gentlemen, and I realise this is for your ears only, I'd like to report that Project Churchill has encountered some minor hitches, but is otherwise proceeding well. Whether it will be operational in time to be useful is another matter entirely."

"You're sure the Soviets do not have any knowledge of it?" It was Bakker, the Dutchman.

"If they did, they certainly have restrained themselves in acting against it." Bingham took a breath, and continued talking. Sometimes he felt his age in situations like this. "In any case, dismissed, gentlemen. We'll meet again here at 2200 hours."

As the blue-uniformed men streamed out the door, Eva discreetly walked over to Bingham.

"Forgive me, Marshal, but was is Project Churchill?"

"I'm afraid that's classified to all but those who need to know." Replied Bingham sternly, resisting the urge to add 'my dear'.

"Sir, as a key member of Allied intelligence, I feel I..."

"Even if I was willing to tell you, Eva, I'm afraid I only have a limited understanding. Now, I believe the commander who saved our arses at Brighton today needs debriefing."

"Understood, sir." She saluted and left. For a lower-class little girl, Bingham thought, she certainly did have a good mind—for a woman. He then turned back to study the map and other tactical readouts. There was still the pressing matter of winning a war.


	6. Chapter V: Calais

_Excerpt from Red Army KGB battlefield intelligence report #1138, from Colonel Volgin to General Krukov, circa November 1__st__ 1973: _

_It must be reported that unfortunately our operation to seize the south coast of England has been a failure, mostly due to our lack of success in establish a foothold at site one, Brighton. Admiral Gorshkov has blamed the British weather, as is predictable, but is obvious from testimonies from our captains and satellite intelligence that the Allies were able to not relent in letting use take their town. _

_Further distressingly, it is clear that the Americans are now buoyed enough to dispatch reinforcements across the Atlantic, via air and teleportation. Personally, I believe that this Allied method of transportation is quite frankly unfair and cheating, but I stress that we must now slow down our offensive and prepare for Allied counterattack. _

_**_

Shurik gazed across the English Channel as he paced along the sands of Calais beach. Behind him were the bombed-out and boarded up buildings of the Calais shoreline, with the famed pier and the lighthouse dotted with flak cannons and some new PSH-X4 DAKKA Gatling anti-air weapons. Dark had fallen, and now he could see the lights of various proud vessels of the Soviet navy moored before the Calais seafront, including a number of landing barges he guessed would be packed filled with invincible tanks and unstoppable Spetnatz commandos. However, there was something wrong. Earlier, he had watched as the main attack force for the English south coast had disappeared, and had spent hours listening on the faint sounds of missile attacks and bombing. He had seen waves of Badger aircraft fly overhead, packed with VDV paratroops. But surely, with the attack no doubt a success, the rest would have moved in by now? And all the commissars and the speaker towers had to say were the same messages about following orders and trusting in the wisdom of Marxism.

He approached another soldier patrolling the beach, which was dotted with Czech hedgehogs and barbed wire. He waited for the soldier to stub out a party-sponsored cigarette he was smoking and spoke to him.

"What do you think has happened with the guys we sent over across the sea?"

"No fucking idea. My heart tells me they got their asses kicked—somehow. The politruks say we kicked their asses. Well, it remains to be seen. If we won, we've won the war—soon, the Allies will have to resort to sending schoolboys into battle, giving them silly names like 'Wolverines' or something or another." He paused to light another cigarette. "You look young and clean. Seen action?"

"I was at Cherbourg."

"Ha! My, we kicked those capitalist wretches back into the ocean with fucking style." He chuckled himself, then offered Shurik a cigarette. He declined.

"Anyway," he continued, "All we really got to worry about are those Allied planes. Seriously, sometimes all they do is throw those tactical bombers at us—'Vin-di-catorr spam', they supposedly call it." He pronounced the two English words with a strong Murmansk accent.

"They are capitalists." Shrugged Shurik. "My father fought them back around 1950, when we moved in to liberate Eastern Europe. They fight like fucking rats and use all kinds of cowardly shit—have you heard that they're building these helicopters that can shrink tanks?"

"No, but if that's the case, I wouldn't be surprised if they started throwing giant squids at us." There was suddenly a dim whirring sound as a cluster of lights appeared superimposed against the black sky above the horizon. Shurik suddenly felt that something was severely wrong. Just what were those supposed to mean?

"Comrade, what are those?" he asked, pointing at the lights. Ignoring him, the soldier went on.

"...and I mean, I wonder how those Black Hole shields or whatever they're called on those battleship tanks work—how do they distinguish between our fire and theirs? I don't know much about all that physics shit, but..."

"Comrade..."

"Yes, my father also told me of the days when we fought with sane weapons—like those original Mammoth tanks and Hinds, and—"

"Comrade!"

"What? Oh." The sound of dozens of aircraft jet engines was now clearly audible, and rapidly increasing. Seagulls screamed overhead as Shurik finally managed to make out the distinctive shapes of those planes he recognized from the information leaflets commissar Kaphiov had given out—the B2-X Century bombers. Supposedly, they packed enough munitions to level a block—which meant...

"I have a bad feeling about this." He muttered hoarsely.

The cigarette from the soldier's mouth had barely hit the sand when the first wave of bombers screamed down over the ships moored before the port, releasing their ordnance. Shurik covered his ears as they impacted simultaneously into the sea, tearing through the vessels in geysers of froth and metal. The flak cannons and the DAKKA guns swivelled in their direction and started up, blazing away in barrages of shells and bullets. Moments later, another bomber swooped over the pier and released several bombers, blasting it apart in a shower of woods. Shurik was knocked backwards slightly by the blast as if someone had shoved him in the stomach, covering himself against the splinters of wood raining around him. He glimpsed one of the bombers coming down in flames and spiralling somewhere into the town center, and the ground juddered under his feet as he heard the explosion.

"Cover! Get to cover, _durak!_" shouted the soldier, running back to the sand dunes behind the beach.

"I never caught your name, Comrade." Panted Shurik, running after him.

"Konstantin. Fydor Konstantin." Growled the soldier as they crawled onto the dunes. Shurik took a glimpse over his shoulder, and saw the ships engulfed in vast columns of smoke, with flames brightening up particular portions of the town. Air raid sirens and alarms added to the background noise as patches of flak bursts obscured the stars in the sky above. The ground juddered more as further waves of bombers released their munitions, with rats and mice scurrying out of their holes.

"Over there!" growled Fydor, gesturing to a concrete pillbox up ahead. Shurik intensified his pace, when he covered his ears again as more Allied planes screamed over head—these ones were more streamlined and arrow shaped. What were those ones again? That was it—their Artemis precision bombers. He glimpsed one of them ahead swooping over a building and releasing a single bomb, which tore the structure apart like a matchwood model. Somehow, Shurik found himself almost entranced by the destruction—it was like watching one of those American movies they sometimes illegally watched in the barracks in live.

Then one of the Artemis planes screamed right over him, knocking him to the sand. All the noise he was hearing was replaced with a pitched ringing noise as his vision blurred. He had the distinct sensation of something pushing him back and a dull boom. Moments later, his vision and hearing flooded back as he found himself sprawled on a dune, his ribcage pulsing with agony, his rifle lying to his side shattered, a crater smoking just meters ahead. Fydor was lying nearby, screaming like a girl, and all that was left of the pillbox was a pile of smouldering concrete. Crawling to his feet, despite the aching in his arms, he could see the town looking like something of hell, with smoke and flames rising out of it into the sky, the Allied planes illuminated orange like demons themselves. They summed up what a group of treacherous, dishonourable, cheating cowards those fascist dogs were. They summed up what he hated about them.

"You bastards!" he screamed futilely into the sky over the noise of bombs and explosions. "You blew it up! Goddamn you all to hell!" He then flinched as bombs exploded all over the beach, throwing sand and fortifications into the air. He glimpsed the poor bastards still standing there thrown away by the blasts like ragdolls, almost feeling the crunches as they landed back on the ground. Looking around, he smiled with satisfaction as one bomber spiralled ablaze into the sea as flak tore into it.

"This is their doctrine." Uttered Fydor hoarsely as he crawled slowly over. "Throw more planes than we can shoot down and drop as many bombs as it takes to kill us. At least we have the courage to fight on the ground."

Shurik nodded. He felt too weak and too hoarse to speak. Sand was getting into his mouth and his eyes, and he could almost feel the heat of the smoke and the fire engulfing the Calais seafront. The Allied planes were now apparently turning back, as if satisfied with what they had wrought upon him and his comrades. So, it was now obvious their invasion of England had failed after all. No matter. From now on, he was going to rip the guts out of every piece of shit Allied chunk of vermin filth he encountered, until he died or the war was won. He would teach those cowards just how futile it was to cross the motherland. The spirits of Lenin, Stalin and Cherdenko would guide him in this.

He watched the planes of the Allied force disappear back over the channel. No doubt the smug fools believed that the war was turning to their side now. They had another thing fucking coming.


	7. Chapter VI: Paris

_Excerpt from the New Frontiersman, 21__st__ November 1973:_

_Today this morning, our brave boys of the 82__nd__ airborne division were paradropped into Central Paris, weakening commie defensive positions and allowing further forces to move in. Despite heavy Soviet defence cordons, our indomitable pilots were able to penetrate commie AA networks and drop our paratroopers into the city center, where they gave those godless Reds what they deserved. Already, it seems that the Blue Eagle flies from the Eiffel Tower. _

_This a step closer in our final securing of victory over the evil that dominates Europe and seeks to take away the very freedom that you and I hold dear. We at the New Frontiersman strongly urge our leaders to show no mercy or quarter to our heartless enemies, for they will show us none. We also urge our readers to do everything they can to contribute to the war effort, be it reporting any overheard liberal comments not in favour of our war effort or even joining up. The United States, and by extension the Allied Nations, need every man and woman we can get. Everyone who believes in freedom at any cost has the potential to become another famed defender of justice like George Washington, General Patton, or President McCarthy. _

_We salute our boys, and hope that they will show no mercy to those who seek to destroy our way of life. _

**

"Alright you apes, you wanna live forever? Get your 'chutes on! Drop's coming in a few minutes!"

Crammed among the sweaty, adrenaline-pumped soldiers in the troop bay of this Century Bomber, Irving readied his M16 rifle and uttered a prayer. He could hear the puttering roars of the jet engines over the chatter and the distant booming of flak, with the aircraft juddering worriedly in rhythm with each boom. With no windows, nothing to see apart from the muscle of the guys around him, he was trying to shake off the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia and fear. He was trying to shake the feeling that this was in all likelihood a suicide mission; an attempt to test Soviet defences in Paris, a city they were not going to give up willingly. Even if he survived the drop, there was the question of the thousands of bloodthirsty Reds willing to tear his guts out, the divisions of unstoppable tanks...no. He shrug that all off. He would do his duty for Uncle Sam. He would do his part for freedom.

"Oh god. What the fuck am I doing here? I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna..." Clayton, a young Bostonian conscript began chattering and juddering. His words were drowned out as the sound of anti-air batteries and faint explosions increased, as everyone began to ready their weapons. The black guys, of course, had been given the dangerous missile launchers and barely any body armor compared to the kit he was wearing. Of course, they didn't care—the opportunity to be someone, the slick recruit vids, the propaganda, had done it all for them and everyone else here.

The plane violently shook as a boom came from outside, louder than any previously. A red light came on, and Irving began sweating profusely. He was not going to be recorded as some random grunt who died shot down far from his native land—hell no. He grabbed his assault rifle—Vera, he was going to call her. With this little bitch, he'd kill a thousand commies. A million. They'd write fucking poems to him back home in Connecticut. People would want signed copies of his autobiography.

"Drop in sixty!" shouted the colonel, and everyone readied. His stomach began to fall as the bomber began to descend, with the distinct screaming of Soviet SAMs and DAKKA emplacements audible over the noise of alarms, engines, chatter, and the cocking of assault weaponry. Slowly, the troop bay doors began to slide open, letting sunlight seep inside, forcing him to momentarily cover his eyes. He saw the bomber flying alongside this one, superimposed against cloud and sunlight. Then he saw it burst into flames, sending blazing shards of metal and men downwards.

"Go! Go! Go! Godspeed, y'all!"

Irving waited a few moments as the guys in front of him leapt out, then followed. Immediately, the adrenaline rushed through his body even more as the cold wind hit his face. Below, he could see Paris imposed beneath him like a relief model, with columns of smoke rising from different points of the city. He could see the flaming remains of the other bomber spiralling down like a meteorite, impacting into a city block. As soon as he felt the time was right, he pulled his parachute cord, letting spread out above him. In front of him, he could see further wings of Centuries plough on through the clouds, surrounded by black explosions of flak and shrapnel bursts of SAMs. Dozens of other parachutes were springing up around him, with the expressions of terror on the faces of some of the poor bastards clearly visible. Quickly, he checked beneath him—he was aiming for the Champ de Mars, the green space behind the Eiffel tower. Across the city, more clusters of parachutes were descending, alongside the dozens of missile contrails and flaming pieces of wreckage as more Centuries succumbed to the flak filling the clouds.

He suddenly his trousers sag as a flak burst exploded a dozen meters to his right, tinged red with blood as three of his fellows were reduced to shredded chunks of meat and cloth. Below, he could see his target area coming up—and fucking hell, there were a _lot _of Reds swarming down there. He could see the distinctive shape of the Eiffel tower coming up, with weapons emplacements positioned on it and red banners hanging down its side. Soon as this day's over, he told himself, I'll be hanging our flags from there. Then, he cried out as smaller clouds of flak exploded around him and his comrades, holing their parachutes and cutting apart some of their combat gear with the shrapnel. With the ground now coming back, he could distinctly make out individual Soviet troops milling around behind sandbags and barbed wire as they fired up—and around him, the others fired back with bullets and grenades, scattering the guys down below.

He braced himself as the ground came up, and his body shook as he hit the grass. Scooping himself up, he unhooked his parachute and readied Vera, letting off several rounds at a nearby flak trooper—no doubt responsible for blasting apart some of his guys up there—and watched in satisfaction as his unshaven face contorted in pain and he collapsed to the ground, his oversized flak launcher clattering to the side. Around him, the other paratroopers landed, spraying the area with bullets. A commissar among the sandbags, dropping a pile of leaflets he was carrying, cried out in Russian, but collapsed to the floor after several dozen rounds cut through him.

"Secure this position!" cried out Colonel Johnson, the squad leader, brandishing a friggin' M85 machinegun as he crammed it with ammo. Next to him, Arnold, one of the black guys, was revving up a minigun—of course, for people like him, the heavier, more recoil-producing weapons were priority. Forming a circular perimeter around the central part of the Champs De Mars, the paratroops began to readjust the PK machineguns on the sandbags.

"Remember the plan—we repel any counterattacks on this location, and then we secure that big thing there!" Johnson continued to bellow, indicating the Eiffel tower down the park. "Any of you pussies don't put your fucking heart into this, I'll get you if the commies don't!" Murmurings of acknowledgement filtered through the troops.

"Yo! Air-heat, incoming!" One of the black dudes brandishing a Javelin missile launcher took aim as a Twinblade appeared from behind one of the buildings lining the park. As it approached, he fired, the missile impacting straight into the gunship's cockpit and sending it spiralling down onto the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, the explosion overturning several civilian vehicles.

"They know we're fucking here! Stay sharp!" shouted someone. Irving ducked behind a sandbag, placing hi s machinegun on it. Down the Champ De Mars, he could see vehicle fumes coming from above the trees as the growling of tank engines grew nearer. As if out of nowhere, dozens of Soviet conscripts appeared charging out of the trees down the park, with a truck with a speaker tower behind them, blaring messages in Russian. They were screaming like fucking demons, shooting their rifles in his direction, seemingly never-ending. Irving resisted the urge to scream, and prepared to fire. Behind the wave of conscripts he could see Sickles and Hammer tanks approaching—yes, they were in deep shit alright.

"Stand aside, y'all!" It was Arnold, preparing his minigun. Stepping above the sandbags, he started up his weapons as the conscripts came in.

"Fuckers!" he shouted as he fired up the gun. Bullet casings spat out of the side as the noise of it almost drowned everything else—like some demonic chainsaw.

"FUCKERS!" Conscripts left and right collapsed to the ground as they were reduced to bloodied sacks of meat and cloth in seconds. The ground was engulfed with dust as missed rounds impacted into it.

"FUUUCCKKKERRRRS!" One conscript managed to charge almost within throwing range. Instantly, several dozen rounds impacted straight into his face, blasting his head into a red paste that splattered onto the ground among the other mutilated, barely recognizable bodies.

"**FFFFFFFFFFUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRS!**" Arnold's voice reached almost hysteria pitch as finally rounds zinged past him, grazing him on the shoulder. Collapsing to the ground in pain among the piles of spent round casings on the ground around him, the others opened fire on the stragglers. Irving selected one poor limping bastard and squeezed the trigger, grinning as he collapsed to the ground. Let him go back to Moscow in a body bag, he thought.

"Incoming!" One of the sandbags was blown apart and the troops behind it thrown backwards, their bodies contorting into positions Irving had never imagined were possible. The Hammer tank had moved into position and was firing, while the Sickles leapt into the air and came crashing down straight among them. It was like Dunkerque all over fucking again, only up to eleven. Quickly, Irving tried to take down the gunners on the nearest sickle, but the sheer noise and panic of the situation was disorientating him, and his rounds ricocheting all around it. One of the weapons of the nearest Sickle started up, pummelling one of the demo experts with several hundred AP rounds. Within seconds, all that was left of him was a bloodied mess of scrambled intestines and shredded uniform.

The Sickles then collapsed to the ground as the others finally took out the legs, with one of the other guys leaping on and taking out the gunners with dual Desert Eagles. Who the fuck did that guy think he was, Tanya? True to the form, he was blown aside as the tank fired again, blowing man and dirt into the sky in a geyser. Moments later, half a dozen Javelin missiles and rocket-propelled grenades came in its direction, impacting straight into the cockpit and blasting the turret straight off. For one moment, there was silence, save for the flickering of the smouldering sickles and the booming and clattering of flak and gunfire in the distance. Irving looked up into the sky, and could vaguely see what looked like wings of Artemis bombers flying around up there, with the heavens covered in missile contrails and black spots of AA bursts. Around him, he could see the wounded being tended to and the gory remains of shredded conscripts and friendlies alike—and then the stench of blood, weapon smoke, and dirt hit him.

"Save the mourning for later!" shouted Johnson, cocking his rifle dramatically. Typical—fucker always thought Hollywood theatrics would get them up in times like this. "Objective two secured! Now we move on to the big one!" Forming up behind him, the squad followed Johnson as he began hurrying down towards the massive tower of steel looming up ahead. They paid no heed to the bullet-ridden wounded behind, slowly dying from loss of blood—what use would they be?

As they approached the foot of the Eiffel tower, he noted more conscripts holed up behind sandbags, with sentry guns too. He dived as bullets were sprayed in their direction, and they replied with grenades and even more bullets in kind. Suddenly, Johnson collapsed to the ground screaming, his shoulder covered in blood, and Irving quickly scanned the area ahead through the sights of his rifle—and there he noticed, on one of the girders of the tower legs, the distinctive shape of a Spetnatz trooper, wielding a Dragunov sniper rifle. As the others continued to move on, exchanging fire with the scattering conscripts at the foot of the tower, he crouched behind a sandbag pile and took aim. He sprayed several rounds in the guy's direction, but they seemed to merely impact around him. Immediately, the guy lowered his rifle and looked around—shit. Ducking, he began to reload his rifle when a round impacted into the soil beside him, cutting through the sandbags. That fucker wanted to play? Fine then.

Poking himself out of cover, he fired again and missed. He had barely enough time to register the flash of the Dragunov's muzzle, and shouted out in pain as he felt an immense agony in his side. He noticed red spreading over the side of his combat gear like paint on paper. Ignoring it, he looked around, and noticed a dead Javelin soldier nearby, his launcher lying beside him. Sparing no thought for his dead fellow, he ran over, another round barely missing him. Scooping up the launcher, he aimed, and smiled in satisfaction as he saw the bastard look up in horror through the sights. He squeezed the trigger, and lowered the launcher as the missile shot across the 300 or so feet separating them. An explosion spread out across one of the legs of the tower. Yup, definitely a kill.

He dropped the launcher and ran over to the others—the area beneath the tower had been secured, judging by the corpses of dead conscripts scattered around. Within a few minutes, he was on the first level of the tower, watching as they rooted out the Soviet combat engineers and troops skulking around there and dismantling the AA emplacements. The others had generally agreed to give him the honor of unfurling the Allied banners from the tower. He ignored the wound in his side. He did not think about the death he had just witnessed. He had done his duty for Uncle Sam—any losses in the event of victory were irrelevant. He looked out across the smokestack-dotted Paris skyline, glimpsing the red beams of Athena satellite cannons far across the city coming down—reinforcements were coming in. The 'City of Lights' was about to take on a whole new meaning.


	8. Chapter VII: Lyon

_Excerpt from Commissar Anton Liadov's daily report, circa 24__th__ November 1973:_

_The Allied bastards do not give up in their attempts to take Lyon. Our troops cower in the face of every airstrike, artillery barrage, armor assault, and satellite strike. I doubt that the troops even listen to my lectures or the words I have to say. We gave no quarter to the fascists, and naturally they are giving us none. Spillout from Desolator airstrikes is contaminating our local water supply and turning many civilians against us. Our anti-air weapons are nearing depletion of ammunition and if we do not receive supplies soon, they will simply bomb us out of existence. _

_I must end this report soon. It looks like they are preparing another attack wave—the largest one yet, potentially. With our ammunition running low, I fear for our hold on this town. Some citizens have collaborated with us, but they are worth little more than cannon fodder. We simply must receive supplies or reinforcements, or the Allied bastards will use this town as a conduit with which to beat back our liberation in this area. _

_Furthermore, I need a new batch of posters of Cherdenko. The last ones turned out to have glasses and googly eyes scribbled on them with a marker pen. I trust the one responsible believes himself to be very funny indeed._

_**_

Anton Liadov, commissar and politruk of the Red Army, cried out as another artillery round screamed over his head, impacting straight into a building several streets back. His uniform was smeared with the mud, grit, and faeces he had accumulated during the siege, and tattered following days of near misses from shrapnel and snipers. He been force to glue his hat on to prevent it from constantly falling out—without it, he would look like just another fool in a muddy longcoat. A satchel filled with leaflets and posters hung by his side, and he brandished a MP5 sub machinegun he had taken off a dead Allied officer in Germany—were it not for the state of his clothes, he'd look like a archetype commissar from one of his own posters, proclaiming him to be a 'HERO OF THE UNION'.

Here he was, standing on the boundary of town and countryside, with a desolate ruined town behind him, now a cluster of burnt-out boarded-up buildings infested with looters and squatters, and before him was a brown wasteland that was once beautiful countryside, pockmarked with craters, barbed wire, and lingering green clouds from Desolator chemical weapon strikes. Wrecked vehicles of Allied and Soviet make littered this apocalyptic, hellish landscape, along with the semi-decomposed, bullet-ridden remains of soldiers of both sides, some tangled among the barbed wire that snaked through this no man's land. Standing around him were his fellow comrades, defenders of the Soviet cause; there were eager young conscripts looking horrified at the desolation before them, grumpy-looking veterans, and a few stoic Spetnatz troops, wearing full body armor in comparison to the simple coats of the conscripts. Behind him were collaborators, Frenchmen designated by their red armbands and the simple PPSH-41 machineguns they held. Despite their undeniable devotion to the cause, it was a sad fact that standard procedure involved them basically being used to use up enemy ammunition—it was not like they could afford adequate equipment for all of them, and it was still a worthy sacrifice for the cause.

"Stand fast comrades!" called out Liadov, trying not to betray in his voice his sheer terror. Everyone began to crouch behind walls, sandbags or whatever obstacles were present as the screaming of Allied bombers became audible. Liadov covered his ears as he glimpsed the sleek black shapes of Allied Artemis precision bombers scream overhead, before hearing distant explosions from within the city center. Days of bombing and shelling had reduced this own beautiful town to a desolate hellhole—the greedy, lying, deceitful capitalist bastards cried about so-called Soviet 'war crimes' when they inflicted such destruction on their own land. But, from a point of view, he could understand this—like true soldiers, they had shown the fascists no mercy, so it was only natural that they would give out none.

"We have wheels, incoming." Growled Tarasov, one of the Spetnatz soldiers, observing the scorched earth before them with binoculars. Behind them, Bakapor, another Spetnatz, grunted as he lifted up a GShG-7.62 Gatling cannon, stuffing in ammunition feeds. Liadov wondered how these people managed to lug around such heavy weapons with no regard to weight or recoils—no doubt the steroids and drugs Soviet elite troops liked to stuff themselves with.

"Let the little babies come and taste Natasha." He grinned, aiming the weapon forwards.

Up ahead, Liadov could make out Allied IFV buggies careening across the rough landscape towards them, some armed with their standard missile launchers, others with shrapnel guns and ranged weapons that could turn a man's innards inside out as easily as a woman cut cheese. In one of the windows of the burnt shell that used to be a house nearby, a conscript readied an RPG launcher.

"Remember, for every shot they fire, you give them ten." He growled, trying to sound as manly as he could. Behind him, someone translated his words into French for the benefit of the collaborators, which ruined the effect somewhat. Some of the troops muttered darkly and others rolled their eyes; he could not shake that inescapable feeling that his job of keeping morale and loyalty in the ranks was failing somewhat.

The RPG missile fired from the building as the IFVs approached, scoring a hit on the sniper-equipped one, adding another twisted pile of black metal to the various vehicle wrecks dotting the field. Screeching to a halt, throwing up mud and dirt, the IFVs returned fire. Liadov ducked as missiles impacted in front of the barricades and into the houses, showering up mud and bringing down bricks. Two conscripts next to him were knocked back as flechettes impacted straight into their chests, cutting through their skin and spilling their guts onto the dusty ground. Liadov felt like vomiting upon seeing the sight, but it was nothing compared to what he had seen in the last few days alone.

Sparks then danced around the vehicles as Bakapor started up his gun, laughing maniacally as he blazed away at them with volleys of AP rounds. Liadov watched with satisfaction as one was blown onto its side by the sheer force of the bullets before exploding. "Cry some more!" shouted Bakapor manically as the remaining ones were blown apart like foil.

No doubt just a preliminary force to test defences, thought Liadov. The Allies had been keeping to the same pattern for most of the siege; send forward a few light vehicles to gauge resistance, before bringing in air and ground power. And with the AA batteries in the town on the verge of being reduced to useless lumps of metal or want of ammo, it would only be a matter of time before they levelled this town with their Centuries and Vindicators. After all, what was one more ruined little French backwater to them?

"Fuck my mother, here they come. I think they're being serious this time." Uttered Tarasov as dark shapes appeared on the horizon. As they approached, they became visible; a quartet of Riptide transports, accompanied by Guardian tanks and more IFVs. He could distinctly hear the sound of helicopter rotors among the increasingly louder sounds of vehicle engines; looking up in the black-and-red sky, were the distinctive silver bodies of Cyrocopters. Damn Cyrocopters. Seemingly of worthless tactical value, yet so useful, utilizing some of the more bizarre science the Allies had come up with. He hated them more than most prolific Allied vehicles; he had seen the side-effects that damned impossible shrink ray had. Men fused into their vehicles, crammed into a fraction of their natural mass, components and metal sharing the same space as their internal organs, living in unbearable agony despite the fact that by all rights they should have been dead. Lying Allied propaganda networks such as BCN and CBS claimed that the Cyrocopter was 'humane' and 'non-lethal', along with all the other bullshit lies they dribbled; well, fuck them.

"Expect incoming mortars, if they're playing by the usual rules." Grunted Liadov. Unless the Allies wanted to take prisoners this time. "Let's show them that their piece of shit machines are nothing but food for our weapons. As soon as they're in range, let them have it. Shoot them from afar, and then tear their guts out up close. They want a fight? We'll fucking give them one!"

Murmurs of agreement and enthusiasm rippled through the troops. Liadov smiled. The speech had just flowed off his tongue naturally. Now it was just a question of taking the incoming onslaught.

Bullets peppered the ground in front of him as the Riptides opened fire, raking the barricades with their anti-infantry machines. Mortars launched from other defence positions in the town exploded around the tanks, which returned fire, slamming into buildings with their shells. Battered by the returning barrages of rounds, RPGs and grenades, the Riptides spat out the troops within them and turned around. Liadov smiled—target practice time. A few were conventional Allied troops, wearing camouflage gear and wielding M16s and G22 rifles, but most were those dumb Peacekeepers, wearing blue armor that stood out amongst the brown like a car in snow, armed with those pathetic shotguns. Behind them, one of the Riptides turned around and began laying suppressive fire, chipping away at the sandbags and barricades.

Liadov gasped out loud as suddenly the upper floor of an adjacent building exploded in a shower of dust and brick, with one of the Guardian turrets swivelling in their direction, the soldiers inside reduced to mutilated lumps of shrapnel and meat. Panicking, some of the conscripts dropped their weapons and began to run. Liadov's heart sank as he readied his MP5. He really detested doing this to troops that he had known, but this was his duty. They failed the motherland with their cowardice; they failed him. As the others returned fire, forcing the Peacekeepers into cover, he squeezed his trigger, gunning both down into two consecutive bursts. More IFV flechettes came this way, slicing through more conscripts and collaborators, adding bodies to the barricades of rubble and brick.

It was then that a pulsating white light came from above, striking Tarasov. Liadov watched in shock as he stood static in a firing pose, as frost and ice spread over his body in seconds. Up above, a Cyrocopter hovered, freezing him with that damned beam. He could only imagine the pain he was going through as ice crystals formed in his blood, causing necrosis and pain. Seconds later, Tarasov was put out of his misery as a round impacted into him, shattering him into frozen, bloody chunks.

"My friends!" Liadov called out in rusty, heavily accented French, to the collaborators. "Your time is at hand! It is either glory or death! Charge the enemy!" That would buy time for him and his remaining troops to pull back to another position—above, the Cyrocopters were pulling back, spitting flares as RPG rounds shot into the air, but they'd be back. Screaming enthusiastically, the collaborators leapt over the stockades and charged, their guns blazing wildly as the Riptides tore into them. Not looking back, Liadov ran back down the ruined street with his men, with stray rounds blowing up dirt and asphalt around him. Above, he could faintly hear the roar of what was definitely a plane—although he was an atheist, like any loyal communist, he was having difficulty uttering a prayer to God that it was a Badger, come to deliver righteous chemical death to the Allied bastards.

As they neared an intersection, Allied soldiers suddenly appeared from a side-street, and immediately opened fire, knocking the foremost conscripts to the ground. Adrenaline rushed through Liadov's veins as he raised his MPK and carefully fired as the conscripts wildly blazed in their direction, smiling in satisfaction as the heads of three of them exploded in beautiful red bursts consecutively. The explosive-laced rounds certainly produced satisfying results.

"Look at them run!" shouted Liadov as the last few dropped their weapons and ran. "Did I not say they were cowards? Did I not say they were spineless pigs?"

As the conscripts cheered in reply, he felt the radio in his satchel buzzing. Funny—the damn thing barely worked, even when he smashed it against a hard object like the techs told him to. Bringing it to his ear, he listened to the static-distorted words—captain Spalko, informing him that the town was officially lost and a gunship would soon show up to pick him up. The fools. The goddamn fools. He and his men had fought with their hearts, their spirits, sinking themselves into filth, and the idiots believed that this town was going to fall. Well, not on his watch. They had held it for days, they could hold it for another days. He put away the radio—if anyone asked, static had distorted it. Looking behind him, he could hear the shouting and boots of Allied infantry. Behind him, more conscripts and collaborators arrived from within the town. Shoving a new magazine into his MP5, he cocked his weapon for dramatic effect.

"All right. Let's give the Allied dogs a little surprise party, with helpings of bullet and death!" he shouted. The conscripts cheered, and charged down the street. Handling his gun, he charged with them.


	9. Chapter VIII: Aachen

_Excerpt from report delivered to Allied Special Forces Command Western Europe, 28__th__ November 1973:_

_Earlier today we commenced a fresh assault on Aachen, which we hope will mark the beginning of an offensive to retake Germany. Casualties in the attack were higher than expected, although still acceptable. The Soviets have been deploying chemical weapons in an attempt to stymie us; I personally do not understand why we do not do the same, considering the collateral the bombing runs Bingham loves produce similar results. _

_In any case, following intelligence of secret Soviet weapons caches hidden within the city, I arranged for a commando insertion behind enemy lines to investigate this and eliminate any caches they found while we launched our assault on the northern portion of the city. I recommend that we use our newly-launched cyro-sats as soon as possible once our push into central Europe occurs. _

_Furthermore, the coffee machine down at strategic ops is broken. Requesting replacement. _

_**_

"...give us today our daily bread, and deliver us from evil, amen."

Dupin sat cramped in the troop compartment of the Nighthawk helicopter, clutching his M4 assault rifle to his chest as the aircraft juddered. Months ago, he'd have never guessed that he would be assigned to Special Forces, much less actually survive. But following his actions at Dunkerque, and the somewhat over-enthusiastic reports from his friends there, he had been promoted to 5th squad of Allied Special Forces, Europe. It was unlikely he'd see Hollister and Irving and the others ever again—he wondered whether they were still out there, fighting the good fight, or dead, having been shot down in the face of the enemy. But now, his first thought was on not get killed, and his second was on not pissing off his teammates.

He took a look around him at the other guys, cradling their weapons and adjusting their helmets. There was Samson, the Alabaman yankee who seemingly spoke only in bible quotes—considering, if the words of the others had any truth behind them, he had been fighting since the start of the war and had seen the worst parts first hand, this wasn't too surprising. Next to him was Kruger, the German heavy weapons specialist, then Vincent, the marksman from London, Vasquez, the demoman from Spain, and McCloud from Scotland. Compared to him, a simple man from Paris who had just got lucky, they were fucking hardasses who'd happily charge the entire Red Army and kill half of it before they realised that they were dead.

Now, crammed into this stealth chopper, flying very low to avoid any enemy anti-air fire should it get spotted, they were apparently to locate some sort of Soviet weapons cache in south Aachen while a proper Allied force assaulted the city from the north. In the briefing, satellite and spy plane intelligence had apparently shown little more than infantry resistance in that part of the city, but given Allied intelligence's repeated fuckups Dupin had decided that this was barely worth the board it had been projected on. Glancing out the circular window beside him, he saw the green countryside flash by, glimpsing the odd group of armor advancing forward. Air support would supposedly limited, given the Soviet air patrols over the air. Which left them, a small squad of commandos, against potentially half a Soviet garrison. But then again they were Allied Special Forces. And odds made shit to them.

"'eads up, mates, we're goin' through a rough strait!" cried Vincent, as the Nighthawk began to shake violently as the familiar booming of Soviet flak started up. The helicopter spat flares, for all the good they would do. Samson began fingering a rosary, and Dupin mentally uttered a prayer, despite the fact that all logic and events suggested to him that there was nobody listening. But hell, it was worth a try.

"Yo! Stand by for insertion!" came a voice from the cockpit. Glancing out of the window, Dupin could see the countryside being replaced by medieval houses and buildings as they flew over the city boundaries. He glimpsed Aachen Cathedral, partly bombed-out, as well as smokestacks billowing from various points on the city, no doubt from artillery and Athena satellite strikes. Flying low as to almost graze the rooftops, the squad got up as the back doors opened. Dupin grabbed hold of a railing and stood by, ready to provide cover as they were 'inserted'. Time for another day at the office, he thought grimly.

"Contact!" shouted Kruger as the helicopter settled a few meters above the street, with Soviet conscripts rushing towards it firing mildly. Dupin fired off several bursts in their direction, scattering them, while the others rappelled down. Vasquez let off a shot from his Milkor MGL grenade launcher, blasting the conscripts from behind their cover and slamming their bodies against parked cars or the sides of buildings.

"Suck on that, _tontopallas!_" he shouted manically, letting off another grenade as the remainder ran back down the street. A car was overturned as the grenade impacted, blasting a crater in the cobbled road. With everyone else on the ground, Dupin rappelled back down, with the helicopter rising up as soon as he hit the stone.

"We'll be knowin' where the hell we are in a sec." Uttered Vincent as he fiddled with the GPS locator on his wrist, uplinked to orbiting Allied satellites. He suddenly paused as above an RPG shot out seemingly out of nowhere, striking the Nighthawk on the rear rotor. Spinning out of control, the helicopter disappeared behind other buildings, crashing at least several blocks away.

"We got a Nighthawk down. We got a Nighthawk down." Said Kruger calmly into his radio headset.

"We goin' afta the poor fellas or what?" asked McCloud.

"Negative. It's not likely the pilot survived the crash, and even if he did, the Reds will be on him like ants on fuckin' sugar, and they don't take prisoners. We head straight for the objective." Replied Vincent.

"So much for leaving no man behind." Muttered Dupin, in French.

"English, man, English." Grunted Vincent as they started down the street in single file. Dupin scanned the windows and roofs of every building they passed for any budding commie sniper who'd have some practice shooting his balls off. Even with Allied armor knocking on their front door elsewhere, they'd still react to a Special Forces squad tear-assing in the actual city.

They entered a larger intersection, dotted with rows of barbed wire, sandbags, and makeshift pillboxes, with the buildings boarded up. Conscripts were standing here and there, with an officer standing among them. Posters of that commie whore, Volkova, and that greasy bastard Cherdenko were plastered wherever they looked. Soon as he'd killed every damn red in this place, Dupin would tear them down personally.

"Okay, let's go, let's go!" Vincent squeezed off several shots before diving behind a row of sandbags, knocking three conscripts down. Kruger stood with his M240 machinegun and let rip, blasting apart the sandbags in the center of the intersection with volleys of AP rounds, which carried on through them, knocking down the officer as he took his radio to his mouth. Laughing, Vasquez shot off two grenades, incinerating whoever was left. Typical. They left nothing for him.

"Objective will be a few streets north. If the resistance there is anything like this, it'll be a bloody cakewalk." Said Vincent nonchalantly, as they began walking across the intersection.

"Where are all the civilians?" muttered McCloud.

"The Red _bastardos _no doubt shot any one of them who had the balls to fight back." Said Vasquez darkly.

"Yeah. And any one of them who so much walked out to the shop in front of a commissar probably got a free ticket to Siberia." Added Dupin.

He had a few moments to wonder what that whistling sound was. Then, a geyser of dirt and rock erupted a few meters away as an RPG shot into the intersection, followed by the sounds of roaring Soviet soldiers. Diving behind cover, the squad prepared their weapons as conscripts charged into the intersection, firing wildly, with ones equipped with RPG launchers behind them. He noticed what seemed to be a Spetnatz soldier among them, armed with a heavier-looking ADK-45—the bastard was his.

"Yea, though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death..." shouted Samson above the screaming and the gunfire, as he loaded a grenade into his rifle's inbuilt launcher, "I...shall...fear...no...evil!" A grenade then arced forwards, impacting straight into the first group of conscripts, blowing them away in every direction imaginable, twisting their bodies into shapes contortionists would envy. Dupin winced at the idea of the pain that would entail, then quickly focused on the rest as they fired, peppering the ground around him with bullets. A squeeze on the trigger and boom! Headshot! He grinned in satisfaction as the head of the Spetnatz soldier exploded like a ripe fruit. Beside him, Kruger and Vasquez began scattering the rest with suppressive fire, as Vincent and McCloud picked off the wounded.

"Well, that was easy. I wonder how much more meat the _arschlochs _have to throw at us?" muttered Kruger.

"Don't say that, mate, you know what'll happen then." Replied Vincent as they got up. "Enough wankin' around—proceed!"

Running across into a new street, they quickly checked the area ahead, before proceeding cautiously down, stepping over the twisted bodies of Soviet conscripts. Dupin glimpsed what he thought was a face in a window—were it not for the faint sound of gunfire and vehicle weapons firing in the background, he'd swear they were the only ones left in the city. Up ahead, he could see a square of some kind, and beyond that what looked like the stark shape of a Soviet garrison building of some kind. Was that the objective?

They tensed as the sound of mechanical crawling came from ahead. He hoped it wasn't what he feared it was. Just anything but that.

It was.

Scurrying down the street was a pack of terror drones—robotic spiders the size of large dogs, outfitted with buzzsaws, drills, wielders, and all kinds of shit their twisted designers had given them. Dupin had seen the pictures of what they did to Allied infantry and vehicles. The scuttling little bastards never ran away and never gave up until they were reduced to pockmarked bits of metal. Aiming with his rifle, he opened fire, just as one of them pounced straight onto McCloud's chest. He screamed in agony as saws and drills cut through his body armor and into his stomach, with the smaller robotic pincers of the thing ripping out his intestines and his throats, spattering bodily fluids and organs onto the ground below. Dupin did the best thing he could: fire off several rounds into his head. Then, several more into the disgusting thing, knocking it off his blood-soaked, mutilated body and onto the ground, where it smashed. Around him, the others were barely holding them off, as one tore Vincent's weapon out of his arms and ripped it to pieces. Whipping out a Glock, Vincent emptied the entire magazine straight into it before it collapsed into a sparking wreck.

With the last one destroyed, they paused, panting. The whole thing had just got fucking real. McCloud lay dead on the cobbles, with half his guts torn out on the pavement around him. A good chunk of their ammo had been expended. The damn little things had knocked them back to the real world.

"Form up behind me." Said Vincent hoarsely. "Exercise extreme caution. And I mean fucking extreme."

Walking slowly down the street, they ducked behind a car at the end of it as they took in enemy forces in the square. Across it, built on what looked like the ruins of some building, was a stark Soviet occupation center, with red banners hanging from its windows and a makeshift statue of Lenin before it. Standing around the street were more conscripts, as well as a Tesla trooper. He noticed by the entrance of the occupation center two KGB elite troops, dressed in black body armor and wearing gas marks with glowing red infrared goggles—clearly, they were going with the whole 'we are evil thing' to have the locals shit their pants into submission.

"Plan?" asked Kruger.

"Those things, over there." Whispered Vincent, indicating a pile of fuel barrels in front of one of the buildings. Trust the commies not to bother hiding flammable crude. "Samson? Grenade it."

"The lord said let there be light..." He loaded in another grenade, poked his body from behind the car and let loose a grenade. It arced straight over the square and dropped right at the foot of the fuel pile. A second later, it exploded, tearing up the fuel barrels which rose up in a flaming mass which engulfed several unfortunate conscripts nearby, who threw themselves onto the ground, screaming and writhing. The blast shattered windows on the building behind it inward, knocking bricks and masonry down. Tongues of flame lashed through the windows, setting fire to the interior. Shouting, Soviet troops looked around in panic as the fire billowed up, glowing orange like hell.

"...and there was light."

"Samson, were you on this religious kick at home, or did you crack up over here? Ah hell, never mind, let's go!"

Rolling from out of cover, the squad immediately opened fire, gunning down several conscripts immediately. Firing away madly, Dupin realised what a suicidal situation this was. Little cover, superior enemy numbers, enemy reinforcements no doubt on the way...but hell if he was going to give up. He threw down a smoke grenade and brought up his infrared goggles, which would highlight the enemy through the cover like paint on paper. Noticing the distinctive shape of one of the KGB troops, he opened fire, knocking him to the ground.

It was then that he became aware of a heavy mechanical clanking sound. Looking to his left, he felt a liquid sensation in lower regions as the seven-foot tall bulky metal shape of a Tesla soldier appeared from the smoke. He let off several shots which pinged harmlessly off the beast's armor, and then crouched to reload. Vasquez, standing near him, loaded a grenade into his MGL, just as the thing raised its weapon and let rip a stream of electrical charge. In less than a second, Vasquez's clothes and skin were burnt off, his uncovered muscle frying. Screaming in agony, he collapsed to the ground as his flesh was burnt off like a barbecue. In a moment, he was a dead, smouldering corpse sprawled on the ground, barely recognisable.

"You'll pay for that, asshole." Growled Dupin as he ran straight up to the thing, seeing the suit operator's face faintly through the porthole-type viewport in the upper portion of the suit. Loading a magazine of AP rounds into his rifle, he fired, the rounds smashing through the viewport and into the trooper's face. Moments later, the hulking metal thing topped backwards, smashing onto the cobbled surface with a satisfying metallic thud.

Looking around him, Dupin could see that the square was clear, with dead Russians scattered around, although Kruger appeared to be tending to a wound on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the fact that two of his teammates had been killed in the space of barely a few minutes. Allied soldiers were dying every day; what was two more? Command would just pull replacements from somewhere. He began following the others as they walked over to the entrance of the garrison building, and smashed the door down.

"If intelligence is correct, we should find it in here." Muttered Vincent as they walked into a dimly lit corridor. To his surprise, the first thing they came across was a dead Soviet officer, looking as if he had been mauled by a tiger or something.

"What in the name of Gott did that? Intelligence got a man in here?" asked Kruger.

"If they did, they'd have told me. Spread out and search the building. Dupin, go for the upper levels." Complying, Dupin passed through a door and headed up some stairs. Entering another identical corridor, he found more dead Soviets, some covered in weird metallic spiky discs a few centimetres wide. Bewildered, he peered inside some rooms, finding nothing but desks and filing cabinets, before proceeding up a ladder onto the roof. Like before, there was another dead commie, with his head removed clean from his body. Looking around, Dupin found himself with a nice view of the city, glimpsing explosion rise among distant buildings. He also noticed out of the corner of his eyes—was that some black-clad figure, running across the rooftops? Probably his eyes playing tricks on him. Shrugging, he stood and watched as the sounds of battle drew ever louder.


	10. Chapter IX: Zurich

_Excerpt from letter written by Soviet tank crewman Mikhail Podgorny to his mother, circa 2__nd__ December 1973:_

_The commissar lied to me, mother. They said that the attacking Allied forces were pathetic, their supply lines overstretched. That the squads they were sending would be no challenge. That was not true. I don't know how we survived the onslaught of those vile fascist pigs. We were right to go on the offensive; if we had waited, they would have inevitably spread their disgusting ideology over our great motherland. _

_Our tank is low on ammunition and fuel. We do not know when supplies will arrive. They have teleported ships into Lake Zurich, as they did when we took Geneva. My friends tell me that supplies are being diverted from our fight here to protect our central European command in Germany; I hope that we remain strong as our enemies seek to destroy us. _

_I must stop writing now. The Guardians are coming again. _

_**_

"Hold tight, faggots! I think it's them!"

Mikhail Podgorny gritted his teeth as he turned the Hammer tank around the black ruins of another building, on the coast of Lake Zurich. Nicknamed 'Shmyel'—'Bumblebee'—the tank had partaken in the battles of Geneva and Paris, with blue dashes on the turret denoting enemy kills. A heavy machinegun, leeched off an Allied Riptide transport in Northern France, was attached to one side of the turret. She and her crew had known little other than glory in this war. Now, in the outskirts of Zurich on the shore of the city's lake, Mikhail felt that that was all about to change.

"Yes—a Riptide, on the lake, range 120! Kas, take aim and fire!" Tank commander Kazan, seated behind Mikhail, called to gunner Kas Asimov as Mikhail brought the tank to a stop in a clump of burnt-out trees. It was evening, and the water of the lake was almost as dark as the sky—not that it mattered with the tank's infrared sights. With the city's power plants bombed out, along with most of Zurich for that matter, most of the grunts would be fighting in blackness, with only Spetnatz having access to night vision. Mikhail was thankful that if he died here he would die quick, with the ammunition storage compartments having a tendency to detonate violently when ruptured, rather than bleed to death with bullets lodged in his heart out there as an unprotected infantryman.

The tank was knocked back slightly by recoil as it fired two shells, one after the other. The first impacted into the water a distance away, the second striking a nearing Allied amphibious APC, which disappeared in a geyser of water and metal. Flashes appeared all along the opposite shore as more Allied forces came in—through his own night vision sights, Mikhail could see explosions erupt among building ruins, no doubt from Allied air support. If there was one thing Hammer crews would shit themselves at, it was the threat of Vindicator or Artemis precision bombers. He would wonder if there were any Bullfrogs or MiGs to help clear the skies, but with his concentration on the ground it hardly mattered.

"We have twelve shells left, and enough fuel for twenty minutes more." Called Kas from the other side of the tank's interior. "Perhaps we should return to the depot."

"Rubbish!" shouted Kazan. "Our task is to defend this position, and we will do that until we cannot do so any more. Besides, Allied bombers will likely be on that place like flies onto shit, and you don't want to be there when that happens, eh?"

"Understood, comrade."

Mikhail could wonder how Kas was feeling, cramped into the gunner's seat and barely able to move his limbs. He could at least have a view of the outside via the tank's viewport and periscope, nullifying the sense of claustrophobia, but Kas had nothing to see of the outside save through dirty gun sights, and nothing to smell but his body odour and cordite. Kazan, of course, had the most comfortable position, and was nearest the hatch, allowing him the best chance of an escape if the tank was hit.

Explosions suddenly erupted to all sides as the familiar screams of Vindicator engines, played over and over on documentary films and recordings from the front, came from overhead. A blue flash appeared somewhere over the lake, and a few moments later Mikhail could make out several large bulks there emitting flashes.

"Radio says they've got an aircraft carrier and couple of destroyers on the lake via that magic machine of theirs." Spat Kazan angrily as distorted chatter came in out of his headset.

"I think we should pull back into the city, comrade." Said Kas over the noise of machinegun fire as bullets came in their direction, ricocheting off the side of the tank.

"You deaf, asshole? I said we will defend this position until we cannot do so! I will..."

"Yes, comrade, and with those things on the lake we cannot do so. Besides, the gun barrel is overheating, and I need to clean the sights."

"Very well. Mikhail! Take us back to sector four! Let them have the shore—it matters not if we can hold what is behind it!"

Mikhail brought the tank around and took her rumbling through the ruined, desolate streets of what was once a city he had only seen on postcards. If you could call them streets—more like strips of asphalt between piles of charred brick and masonry. The Hammer tank was the pride of Soviet engineering, advanced, fast, and tough. This one had survived other battles, so she would survive this one.

"More chatter." Called Kazan as further shouting came from his radio. "Allies are paradropping tank units straight into the city. Kas, load a shell and be ready to fire at will."

Mikhail considered putting on some patriotic music on the tank's music player set, to drown out the sounds of the growling engine, the battle raging across half of Switzerland, and the radio chatter. Hearing the chorus of Polyushka Pole in his ears would really do him good. But then, what good would that be if he was distracted at a crucial moment when Allied tanks appeared in front of him via chrono-teleportation or parachuted from the sky? No, he would focus all on the job at hand.

"Ah—we've got something." Said Kazan in satisfaction as they turned a corner to find a squad of Allied troops and Peacekeepers setting up sandbags in the street before them. As he had done often, Mikhail simply plowed over them, hearing the satisfying crunching sounds of flesh under treads and the accompanying screams. Kazan directed the leeched machinegun, mowing down stragglers fleeing into ruined buildings or those uselessly firing their small arms at them.

"Just like in the movies." Muttered Mikhail as they carried on, leaving behind them crushed sandbags and mauled bodies. Nothing more satisfying than literally crushing some capitalist-fascist lapdops, just as they put down their workers and people. Once the Allies were on their knees again, this fate would bode to the corporate executives and landowners who pulled the strings of their governments.

Clouds of dust and dirt exploded up ahead—screams about destroyer and aircraft carrier bombardment came over the radio. Mikhail decided to put on some music after all—no sense in fretting over a shell from an Allied ship blasting the tank in half, or bringing a building down on them. The deep chorus of 'Kalinka' reverberated dimly around the tank interior, barely audible over the other noises around him.

"Enemy armor, ahead!" he cried out as two Allied Guardians appeared ahead, coming down the street. British steel—the armored fists of the capitalists scourge, the newsreels called them. No matter. They were tricycles compared to the Hammer. By the time their turrets were swivelling, Kas was loading a shell into the gun as he began driving to the side, plowing down a wall.

"Aim 80 degrees! Fire!" called Kazan, peering through a periscope. The gun of the tank fired, propelling the shell straight into the front of the nearest enemy tank. The enemy armor was pierced, the shell no doubt tearing apart the interior, wrecking the equipment and incinerating the crew. Pushing aside the flaming wreck of its comrade, the other tank bore down on them and fired. The shell struck a nearby ruin, sending bricks and dust tumbling down.

"61 degrees! Fire!" cried Kazan, but Kas was already letting rip with a shell. This time, however, it merely grazed the enemy tank, blasting the laser designator straight off the roof of the turret. Encircling each other, both tanks attempted to acquire a target on one another while trying to stay out of the other's line of fire. The Guardian fired again, grazing the Hammer's starboard tread, ripping off some of the armor there.

"40 degrees! Fire!"

"We'll miss!" shouted Kas back over the spluttering engine.

"I know what I'm saying! Fire, goddamn you!"

Kas complied. The Hammer fired again, the shell impacting straight into the wall of a ruin across the street. The wall toppled down onto the Guardian, burying it under a pile of charred bricks and girders. Again, Shmyel fired, the shell piercing the side of the Guardian and blasting apart its ammunition store. The results reminded Mikhail of a bonfire, like back at home, where they burnt effigies of Allied figures and landowners. It was beautiful.

"Proceed down the street! Now we must return to the depot to replenish ourselves, if the bastards haven't levelled it already." Growled Kazan as they resumed rumbling down the ruined streets. Every now and there, a lamppost glowed faintly, but otherwise the city was dark save for the light of explosions, with the ruins looking like craggy towers out of some dark folk tale.

Moments later, a nearby house burst open as a huge metallic mass smashed it aside. Mikhail almost vomited in surprise. Just as Krokodil had said, except he had almost thought they were joking—an Allied destroyer, the size of a building, in land configuration, propelling itself on enormous treads each the size of a large vehicle. The thing was so large that it could defeat even Apocalypse tanks just by running them over. He uttered a prayer, just as his Orthodox grandmother had taught him—he knew a good communist did not take store in such nonsense, but in these last moments it was good to be safe.

"The ground!" shouted Kazan as the main gun of the monster swivelled towards him. "Aim at the ground beneath it!"

"Working on it, working on it! Gun's overheating!" screamed Kas.

Mikhail desperately strafed to one side as the destroyer fired, the shell shattering the blackened shell of a building behind them. Kas loaded a shell and fired, impacting into the buckling tarmac beneath the monstrosity. There was a pause, and then cracks spread among the road as Mikhail drove it onto a ruin. Moments later, the road collapsed and the destroyer fell into some subway or sewer, the ground no longer able to support its tremendous weight.

"The main disadvantage of things like that." Sighed Kazan as he wiped his forehead, with Mikhail again setting a course for the depot. "Swiss streets aren't supposed to take battleships on land. Now, comrades, let's return to base."

AUTHORS NOTE: EMPIRE OF THE RISING SUN APPEARING NEXT UPDATE. STAY TUNED.


	11. Interlude: Moscow

"Divisions are moving forward as planned. The Allies may have pushed us back into Poland and the satellite states, but with our new counteroffensive all their victories and losses will be for naught. They surely cannot withstand this new attack."

In a dimly lit command bunker beneath the Kremlin, Moscow, uniformed Soviet generals and commanders crowded around maps and satellite images on tables and walls, with female intelligence officers repositioning markings on the map as information buzzed out of telephones and fax machines. Above them, Moscow was preparing for New Year's Day, with Christmas trees still in Red Square and in the various parks. The citizens had been assured by relentless propaganda that the recent Allied push had been but a temporary setback to the Soviet cause, with this new counteroffensive guaranteed to finally break their back.

Here, in the main Soviet war room, the atmosphere was the complete opposite. Each commander was reluctant to make any defeatist comments—Cherdenko had threatened anyone of that attitude with a trip to Siberia. Nonetheless, with forces being drawn from the Balkans and Central Asia, hope still remained. Surely, even with the United States behind them, the Allies could not hold forever?

"Comrades, I have disturbing news." A man in a KGB uniform rushed in, waving papers. "We have been losing contact with our Arctic bases, and our Pacific coast."

"So what?" growled General Paski. "It is New Year. They are probably just getting out the vodka and the women."

"That is not all, comrade. We have repeatedly tried to raise our garrisons there on priory channel. No response. We will be getting satellite image shortly."

Hubbub began to break out.

"An Allied assault?" suggested Admiral Gorshkov.

"Impossible. If they had committed any naval forces there, we would have noticed. Our Akulas are not blind."

"They have that Chronosphere abomination..."

"It can only teleport limited forces, and besides, they need their navy to block our access out of the Batlic."

"Satellite images are arriving..."

It was then that telecommunications monitors along the wall began to flicker.

"We are receiving a communications transmission. Origin is Tokyo." Announced a comms officer.

"What the hell?"

An image flickered into shape on the monitors, showing a seated figure. All in the room instantly recognized him.

"Greetings, Russian barbarians. I am Emperor Yoshiro of the Empire of the Rising Sun. We have risen, and we will not be stopped easily. You have the honor of being the first nation to witness the power of our military forces. All of your bases now belong to us. You have no chance to survive, now use your time wisely. You will bow before us, or you will cease to exist."

The monitor flickered back into blackness.

"The Japanese?" gaped General Pushkin in shock. "But those little rats have been a closed nation for thirty years! Is he being serious?"

"Satellite images indicate massive military forces attacking our northern and eastern coasts." Announced an intelligence officer.

"Fuck my mother." Growled Paski. "Inform Cherdenko and the politburo. Tell them we're in deep shit."

**

Within a dimly lit laboratory, somewhere in Japan, Professor Shinji Shimada injected the syringe in his hand into the subject on the table. Across the room, covered in shadow, stood another figure. Monitors displayed readouts of the subject's cranial activity, and further data.

"Our collaboration has proved most successful, Shimada." Rasped the figure. "These new breakthroughs in psionics and genetics will prove most useful in your country's new war, and in other applications...

"What if this latest one does not work? This new gene-mixture is an extremely instable one." Stammered Shimada.

"If it does not work, then give it to me. I will find a use for it. After all, a mind is a terrible thing to waste...


	12. Chapter X: Vladivostok

_Excerpt from the Imperial Japanese Army's news bulletin, 1__st__ January 1974:_

_Today, the completion of Japan's divine destiny has fallen into place. What we started in 1933 with the invasion of China we will finish by invading the weakened Soviet Union, and thereafter the rest of the world. While the pathetic, weak spineless foreigners fought and squabbled, we prepared ourselves to ascend into the highest annals of history. No man, army or nation can stand before the might of our great Emperor. _

_Be brave, soldiers of the Empire. Show no mercy to the despicable, inferior gaijin, for they deserve none. Hold nothing back, for a soft will leads to defeat. We have the soldiers .We have the technology. Our ancestors are with us all. Go, brave sons and daughters of the Emperor, and bring about destiny. _

_**_

"Oh, but Pyon, I love you so!"

"My apologies, Saruhi. I have realised that my true loyalties and love must lie with the Emperor and Japan, for otherwise shame would be upon me. I must take up my weapon and fight, for honor's sake."

"But Pyon, I don't know what to do without you!"

"Fear not, for as a daughter of the Emperor you can serve too. Why not join the ranks reserved for brave young Japanese women like you, and together none will withstand our burning love for each other...and above all, our nation."

Young Shinji Takiri switched off the portable television as he reclined in his barracks bunk. The latest episode of one of the more popular animes out there—_The Loyalty of Saruhi Huzumiya. _The messages it had sent out, along with the needs of his father, who had also been a loyal servant of the Emperor, and above all his honor, had led him here, to the large barracks complex near Wakasa bay. Thousands of other brave, young Japanese men, some enlisted, some conscripted, were also present, along with soldiers from across the Empire who had had their eyes opened to the Emperor's vision. Soon, he had been told, they would partake in the assault on the Russian barbarians. Takiri had made his aim to slaughter as many of the inferior dogs as possible with katana and railgun, all the better for his future descendants to look up to.

"Wake up!" It was the sergeant, Takahata-sama, entering the barracks dormitory, loudly shouting the few remaining sleeping ones there awake. "Don your uniforms! Today, you rodents will prove that all this preparation has been worthwhile!" Lazily scrambling out of bed, Takiri began pulling on his body armor, stylized like the samurai armor of old. Reading the stories of the ancient warriors, the various texts of bushido, the words drummed into him from a young age, he could realise how it would feel to bring honor as a person of war.

Having put on their uniforms, the men assembled outside the barracks. Across the bay in the distance dozens of battleships and cruisers were spread out, while wings of Tengu jet fighters streaked across the morning sky. Stealth hovercraft were parking themselves before the various other barracks in the complex, while rows of tanks and mechs proceeded onto larger landing craft. Support personnel in plain uniforms handed out katanas and rifles to each soldier as they walked out.

"Men, today you embark on a mission of vital importance." Continued Takahata-sama. "From our bases in the Arctic, we strike down on the filth. From here, we strike on their flank. You will take the port of Vladivostok while our indomitable navy provides support. You will not betray weakness. You will not betray disloyalty. You will each prove your faith in the most profound way possible. For it us our mission to demonstrate the superiority of Japan over the barbaric swarms, as we have already done over the decades." As he spoke, Takiri noticed the distinctly non-Japanese faces among the stiff ranks—some Koreans, Chinese, Filipinos, Indonesians, and even some pale Caucasians from Hawaii, all kinds of men from around the Empire who had accepted the Emperor's vision and their place in it, as the people of Russia would soon.

"We have already battled this enemy and won, precisely seventy years ago." Continued the sergeant. "This time, we have the strength to place them into eternal servitude for our nation. No more will we be some afterthought. No more will we be ignored on the stage of the world. For once this is finished, we will be dictating the nature of the world. Now go, board your transports, and may the Emperor bestow his favour upon as all."

Takiri silently filed aboard a transport designated for his regiment along with his other fellows. They sat silently in the red-lit interior of the transport, with a screen playing various speeches of the Emperor blaring on one wall. After all, the divine words of the Emperor were all that were needed to be heard in such a mission. The transport then jerked forward as it, along with dozens of others, slid down into the bay from a ramp and began skimming across the sea, accompanied by massive Imperial navy battleships and cruisers. Below the waves, Yari submersibles and Seawing craft moved silently, to provide support for the larger constructs above them.

The hours passed. Takiri, with nothing to listen to save the humming of the craft's engine and the muffled babbling from the screen, was feeling drowsy when he was startled back into focus by the distinct booming of Shogun battleship railgun cannons.

"Prepare to disembark!" came a voice from the cockpit.

"Wait." Began one of the other soldiers seated in the troop compartment. "What is our specific objective?"

"Kill as many of the barbarians as possible. Have your way with their women, if you want." Snapped another.

Takiri fingered his rifle. He filled himself with anticipation for his first kill, his first award, and the honor we would bestow onto his family line. Naturally, mercy was not a virtue for those who seek glory in battle, so per the wishes of his superiors he would demonstrate none.

"Disembarking in one minute!" called the pilot as the transport began to shake worriedly. The sound of unfamiliar weapons—cruder, more distorted than the ones he was used to—was now clearly audible. The troops tensed themselves, some uttering prayers to whoever they felt was appropriate, others seemingly contemplating what was to happen. This ended when the back doors of the transport were flung down, and they tore themselves from their seats, charging.

"_BANZAI_!"

Takiri burst out onto a pier, charging towards hapless Soviet militiamen as they blazed desperately away at other Imperial troops as they charged onto the seafront from their transports. Above their heads, railgun shells fired from the battleships sitting in the ocean several kilometers away impacted into buildings at seven times the speed of sound, pulverizing them inwards. VX helicopters dived in and out of the streets, taking out troop pockets and vehicles with volleys of missiles. Filled with euphoria at this sight, Takiri ran up to a militiaman cowering behind a crate and fired off several kinetically accelerated and heated rounds into his head, blasting it open and splattering his brains onto the wooden surface of the pier. His first kill—now to find more.

As he proceeded onto the seafront, Seawings erupted from the waters behind them, flipping into their flight configuration, before circling over the city, letting off blue-traced fire at cowering targets. A man with a knife burst at Takiri from a shop window, screaming obscenities in his own tongue. Drawing his katana in an instant like months of training had taught him, Takiri took a step back as the blade heated up before cutting into the old fool, spilling his roasted innards onto the cobbled ground. Further down the seafront, a copper statue of Cherdenko was blown into shards by a Shogun volley, some of the pieces shattering windows in the buildings behind it. Huge smokestacks billowed across the city as Imperial aircraft circled ahead. Truely, it was going just as the Emperor had foreseen.

"Forwards!" cried a sergeant, rallying throngs of men around him. "Together, we will flush out the cowards who lack the courage to stand to our might!"

"BANZAI!"

"Banzai!" shouted Takiri as he charged after them, waving his sword. Truly, the Empire's military forces knew no equal. If all sons and daughters of the Emperor possessed his faith, victory was assured.


	13. Chapter XI: Murmansk

_Excerpt from the private journals of commissar Liadov, circa early January 1974:_

_And I thought Allied Cryocopters and Mirage tanks were scientifically insane. In just one day, I have had to deal with enormous mechanized monstrosities, Nipponese armed with what I can only describe as swords of light, and helicopters that transform into walking anti-air platforms. This would seem harmlessly eccentric were it not for the fact that these things wrecked untold death upon my soldiers and members of the Soviet proletariat. _

_I fear that this threat may be greater than the Allies themselves. Not only does recent intelligence indicate that the Japanese population and industrial capacity is far more greater than estimates put them, but many of our forces are still diverted in Europe following Krukov's counterattack towards Berlin around Christmas. However, a far more pressing concern for myself right now is the fact that our cache of vodka has run out. I must send for another urgently as soon as possible, or all will be lost._

_**_

"Men, there are times when to properly serve the motherland and the Soviet people you must throw yourself into the mouth of the enemy and tear its throat out, disregarding all fear and hesitation. This is not one of those times. This is one of those times when we must run as fast as is humanly possible, probably while waving your arms and screaming like little girls."

Commissar Liadov leant against a wall panting, while the battered, grubby collection of conscripts crouched around him, the remnants of the division he had been attached to, looked sombre. They had arrived here in the Murmansk area not that long ago, to counter the sudden Japanese invasion. Within minutes, they had come under fire from the coast, with railgun shells pulverizing tanks and vaporizing any infantry they came into contact with due to the sheer speed they were fired at. Strange helicopters and what appeared to be flying armored infantry had rained seemingly unlimited amounts of missiles from above, destroying places of cover. Amphibious tanks had casually bypassed the icy terrain and flushed infantry out of hiding. He had thusly decided that there really was no point in any futile heroics or the charges that he would usually sanction.

"I cannot believe it." One of the men crumbled. "How could we let those little goats build such things in our own backyard? Did we not notice?"

"Because we were distracted with the Allies. What is one little group of islands next to the entire West? Besides, the goats had closed up their country ever since they took Hawaii from the Americans back in 1941. They utterly annihilated the capitalist navy at Pearl Harbor—similar to what they're doing here, in fact." Sighed Liadov.

"Perhaps we could surrender?" suggested a young conscript, his boyish round face covered in snow and muck. "That worked with the Allies."

"I've heard what these people did to people who surrendered in their holdings in China and Indonesia. They make the KGB look like nursery teachers." Growled another one.

"Our priority is getting the fuck out of here." Continued Liadov. "He who lives to run away, lives to fight another day. There is a train siding near here that will take us towards Moscow, where we can regroup. All we need to do is head there and hope that we do not bump into any enemies."

"What about those flying things?" asked another soldier.

"Let them come." Growled one of the flak soldiers in the group, brandishing his oversized weapon. Penal troops, pulled from the gulags to supplement the already large Soviet ranks—too often they tried to make a break for it in battle, and too often Liadov had had to put a bullet through their brains for desertion. But, given the situation, he doubted that they'd try that sort of stunt now.

He took a look over the snowy expanse before him, dotted with the odd concrete block, ruined defensive bunker, and burning car wreck. Could they make it? Fuck it, they'd try.

"Very well then. If we stay here, we're guaranteed to die. If we move, we may die, but at least we have a chance of survival. Follow me if you prefer the second option." With that, he began trudging through the snow, holding his thick black leather commissar jacket to him and keeping his hat on as the wind blew. If there was one element of his dignity that he was going to keep through this ordeal no matter what, it was his hat. He had never lost his hat in battle and he wasn't going to do so now.

Passing a building with a faded image of Cherdenko covering one side of it—some of the soldiers spat at it, but he didn't bother shooting them like he normally would, there were higher priorities for his bullets—they followed a sign reading 'вокзал'—train station. Rats scurried around dead bodies lying in the snow around wrecked cars, which the troops naturally ignored.

"How much longer?" groaned of them.

"It shouldn't be far now. All of our bases here may belong to them, but I doubt they've come this far, so keep on."

Moments after he spoke, there was a low rumble and snow was shaken off nearby benches and parked vehicles, with icicles falling off the surfaces they were hanging from. Freezing, the troops lay down prone in the snow as Liadov gestured for them to do so. He swore violently under his breath—the soldiers were wearing white versions of conscript uniform, giving them at least some camouflage, but here he was in his jet-black commissar uniform standing out like a sober man in a Kiev bar. Fucking army tailors.

Rumbling past some apartment blocks in the distant, jumping around the buildings like a big playground, was a thirty-foot tall _thing_—like some sort of bulky robotic gorilla, with a head like some samurai warrior. Walking beside it were regular troops, looking slightly silly in their archaically styled uniforms, but he had seen what those weapons they were holding did to people. At first glance, he had assumed them to be energy weapons, but medics poking around in the semi-liquefied organs of the troops unlucky enough to be hit by them had discovered superheated rounds, heated and fired to such an extent that they would instantly pulverize the ribcage of any man hit by them. Digging himself further into the snow, he hoped they wouldn't notice him.

After a few moments, the thing and the soldiers turned around and head off in the opposite direction—towards the town waterworks, if he remembered the local maps correctly. He breathed a sigh of relief and began to get up.

"BANZAI!" A straight blue beam suddenly struck one of the nearby conscripts as he got up, and he stood still and taut, seemingly paralyzed. Hovering about fifty feet above them were two of the flying armored soldier things, looking vaguely like metallic butterflies from the ground. As the conscripts began to open fire, the other began to unleash a volley of missiles. Streaking downwards with blue contrails snaking behind them, the missiles impacted in and around the group, blasting up snow and debris. A few struck some of the men directly, blasting them apart and splattering blood and bodily fluid on to the white of the snow around them. Nevertheless, struck by dozens of rounds as the conscripts blazed madly into the air, the two things turned around and sped off, with one spiralling out of control and crashing into a building as assault rifle rounds cut through its internal systems.

Hoping that that hadn't attracted the attention of that other group, Liadov turned around and swore as he saw the huge robot and the infantry coming towards them. Motioning for the troops to follow, he ran for cover behind a nearby lorry as blue-hot rounds streaked overhead. One of them struck one of the conscripts in the head, smashing his skull like a grape being crushed under a hammer and knocking his body several feet to the side. Panting, whimpering and some even weeping for their mothers, the conscripts joined Liadov behind the lorry.

"We're fucked. We're fucked." Babbled one of them, shaking and breathing heavily.

"We are not." Said Liadov as he suddenly remembered something he had noticed while studying the maps. "All we need to do is make sure that thing comes closer towards us."

"With all due respect, comrade commissar, have you gone insane?"

"Usually, I'd be obliged to shoot you for that comment, we're all in this together." The ground began to shake again and pinging noises became audible as the lorry came under fire from the enemy infantry. Holes appeared in the side as the rounds began to penetrate, cutting through its chassis and out the other side.

A whining sound began to drown out the sounds of the enemy weapons firing and Liadov's eyes widened. "Everyone follow me! Move, move, move, MOVE!" Sprinting out from behind the lorry, he raced for a nearby row of parked cars as the men followed. Seconds later, pulsing energy beams shot from the eyes of the robot as it entered the wide space they were in, blasting apart the lorry and showering the immediate area in flaming debris. Stumbling as the blast hit them, the troops ducked behind the cars, their windows shattering as the enemy diverted its fire in their direction.

"Podgorny!" barked Liadov to a conscript armed with a scoped rifle. "Fire at that thing! Aim for its head!"

"What good will that do?"

"Just do it!"

Poking his body out from behind cover, Podgorny aimed his rifle and fired, striking the thing in the head. Moments later, he screamed and collapsed onto the ground as a round grazed his soldier, burning through his flesh and vaporizing his blood. As a medic with them began cauterizing procedures, Liadov watched as the thing began to accelerate and charge towards them.

"It's coming!" shouted one of the conscripts as he burst into tears.

"Wait." Said Liadov tensely. Moments later, the ground under the thing's feet suddenly caved inwards and it plunged straight into water, disappearing under it. Liadov smiled in satisfaction. Just as the maps had indicated, there had been a frozen pond here. Covered in snow, the ice had been indistinguishable from the rest of the surrounding terrain.

"Men! Get out and return fire! Let us show these apes who their 'Lucky Star' really favors!"

Shooting patriotic and profanity-filled battle cries, the conscripts opened fire, knocking down some of the enemy troops as they span around and began running off. Liadov smiled, then looked around and finally noted the train siding in the distance beyond some apartment blocks, with a freight wagon and locomotive waiting there. There was a Hero of the Soviet Union medal in here somewhere, he thought in satisfaction, and all it had taken was a dumb robot falling into water.


	14. Chapter XII: Iceland

_Excerpt from the Evening Standard, 6__th__ January 1974:_

_Confirmation came in today that the Japanese Empire is moving in on Europe from their presence in the Arctic, using what can be described as a 'floating fortress'. With Allied naval forces concentrated elsewhere, there is little that can stop them. Civilian merchant convoys have been ravaged by long range kinetic weaponry. Thus far, little information has been released on the Empire's military capability, other than it is very advanced. _

_Unconfirmed reports have come in that the Japanese have been launching bombing runs on Iceland, Norway, and Scotland from this conveyance as it heads down towards the North Sea. Civilian losses have occurred; at least several hundred were killed in Edinburgh yesterday evening. In the United States, citizens of Japanese extraction have been forced into internment camps under order of President Ackerman with the approval of Congress, and reportedly many such individuals have been beaten up in London and New York, with Japanese shops and restaurants burned and attacked. The government thus far has made no comment on this. _

_The Allied coalition leaders have assured citizens that with effort and devotion, we can repel this new threat. Conservative pundits have blamed the likes of Franklin D. Roosevelt for not moving in on Japan following the destruction of the US Pacific fleet in 1941 and the subsequent seizure of the Hawaiin islands, but most have rebuffed that this is irrelevant, and we must all fight and work harder than ever._

_**_

Baldvin Helgarson shivered, despite the thick coat he was wearing, as he slowly walked past the snow-covered hangars and the various fighters out on the tarmac, with engineers chipping icicles from them. This airbase, a short distance from Reykjavik and part of the Allied network of such installations in Iceland, had just been put on full alert—snow was being cleared from the runways, the pilots were in their gear and ready to scramble, and searchlights occasionally danced across the dark morning sky. Now he, a soldier of the Icelandic divisions of the Allied forces, had been stationed here for guard duty. Here, at a place any enemy would sense would want to raze as soon as possible.

"Cold night, no?" Dan Stoltenberg, a Norwegian soldier also stationed at the base, approached him, clutching his M16 rifle. They spoke English—not a language either spoke well, but the only one they had in common. Baldvin responded with a breath of condensed air as he took another glance into the sky. The news reports had mentioned bombing runs—logic would dictate that they would go for military locations like this place.

"The commies were bad, but I've heard that these fucking Japs are even worse." Said Stoltenberg casually. "I've heard that they rape entire villages of little girls in Russia and turn them into camp whores. They've got bullets that melt your innards. They've got these beam things that paralyze you—you're in fucking agony, understand, and you can't do anything. Fucking bastards, make the commies look like Jesus."

He lit up a cigarette as Baldvin took another worried glimpse up at the sky. They had missile batteries around the coast, and around most of the big cities, but he wondered if that would do good against an enemy that had taken over vast swathes of Russia in mere _days. _The Allies had been trying to find a way to bring down the Bear for decades; now these slant-eyed monsters were steamrolling everybody. Hard to believe that such a small country like Japan could take so much at the same time, he mused, but then, Great Britain had once ruled the world.

An air raid siren suddenly blared up as more searchlights lit up. Adrenaline rushed through Baldvin's blood as pilots ran out of their hangars, with engineers rushing to load up all the ammo they could onto the Apollos and onto some of the older fighters present at the base. Baldvin rushed to his post, near the control tower—just the sort of big target the enemy would want—as the first Apollos roared up their engines and began to lift off, with the rest of the pilots scrambling. He covered his ears as they streaked off into the sky, disappearing into the clouds.

Moments later, some strange-looking bomber shot overhead, and one of the hangar buildings blew outwards in a violent explosion, the blast overturning trucks and fuelling planes, with debris raining down all over the airbase. Screams and shouts echoed around as non-pilot personnel ran around like ants, some running to contain the fire, some running to take care of any wounded.

"Fuck this!" Baldvin muttered in Icelandic, and headed straight for the airbase gates, along with several other soldiers with a similar intent. The airbase was in chaos; nobody would miss him. Burst of light dotted the sky, with the sound of SAMs launching coming from the distance, and he swore he heard the rattling of Apollo weapons come from somewhere above. Blue flashes accompanied the other things lighting up the sky; what was causing them he had no idea.

As he reached the gates of the airbase, hurdling over the barriers, another explosion tore through the base, with the control tower toppling over as several buildings were engulfed in more fiery conflagrations. So much for that hole, he thought. He could see the contrails of missiles coming from the horizon, in the direction of Von Esling base, the core of the Allied network on the landmass—still, he had still no idea what they were firing at.

Something shot over his head, low enough almost to be strafing. It was some kind of bomber—a sleek, shiny design, with vaguely jagged wings. He didn't see more of it to establish a firm picture in his head, but managed to see it shoot off towards Reykjavik, with the lights of the city visible in the distance, along with several brighter flashes and—were those smokestacks?

The bastards, he thought. The fucking yellow bastards. His mother lived in Reykjavik—god help her, he thought. So, it looked like the cowards were going for civvies over military installations. He cocked his rifle and trampled over the snow along with other personnel—more were coming from the base, now engulfed in fires, some of their faces covered in burns. Some of the medical teams were carrying out their own staff, shouting at other wounded that they could not spare any other supplies.

"Shit!" some cried out. "Incoming!"

Baldvin dived into the snow as something flaming screamed overhead and impacted into the snow about a hundred meters away—it was one of those bombers, burning and mangled. Picking himself up, he began to head towards it, wondering if there are any survivors—not to see if he could help them, but to see if he could tear their guts out.

"A Mitsubishi V19M." Someone with a Scandinavian accent nearby uttered aloud as the men trudged through the snow towards the downed bomber. "Or at least, something similar. CIA learned about them in the sixties, when they were 'peacekeeping' in Indonesia. Of course, they paid it no note."

"Don't matter what happened in the sixties and seventies or whatever." Someone British replied. "These bastards fucked with us, we fuck with them. Open that bloody tin can open and let's skin whoever's alive!"

The men whopped in agreement as they approached the bomber, with some of the snow around it melting from the heat of the fires dotting it. One of the personnel ran forward and began dousing the fires with an extinguisher as the others moved to start getting the doors opened. The bomber was strangely designed, from what he could tell of what was left of it, looking like some sort of white, computer product.

Some of the men getting the door open cried out as it suddenly burst open and a man in some sort of flight suit burst out with a chunky-looking pistol. He fired it, the weapon emitting some sort of electronic crackle, and the torso of the man in front of him was ruptured open, splattering blood and organs onto the snow. Yelling something incoherent, the pilot fired wildly, gunning down several other nearby men. Aiming his rifle, Baldvin fired, shooting the man's head open and spilling his brains out onto the hull of the aircraft.

"Come on, little fuckers!" he shouted in English as the rest closed in on the bomber. "Fucking show yourselves!"

"Isn't this against regs or something..." someone nearby muttered.

"Fuck regs!" he gestured at the city lights, and the fires now clearly visible. "They're bombing fucking civvies, when they could be hitting military targets like anyone with fucking decency would! Rip their guts out!"

Grunts of agreement rippled through the men as they reached inside, dragging out another man, this one with his leg torn off and his visor broken. Baldvin glimpsed slanted eyes as he began to mutter something.

"Help...help...please..." he groaned in English. Baldvin walked over and fired a round straight into his face.

"You bet. All the way to hell."

Looking around, he saw the skies filled with contrails and dispersing flak clouds, with smoke coming over from the city and from behind the various mountains of the horizons. Spitting onto the man's body, Baldvin began to head down to the city as the all-clear siren wailed. Morning was starting to break; it was time to see just how much blood the bastards had spilt onto the snow.


	15. Chapter XIII: Jakarta

_Excerpt from report delivered to Allied Intelligence Center Vauxhall, London, January 1974:_

_It appears we have made a costly mistake choosing to overlook the technological and military development of Japan in the decades since she consolidated her Empire in Asia and the Pacific. We assumed from what limited information we had regarding her rapid advancements in military technology that she was merely securing her own borders and responding to the rebels in China and Taiwan. Naturally, we can consider our faces rightfully egged because of this._

_This does not mean that we should continue to remain complacent. With the Soviets focusing on repelling the mass Imperial invasion, and with Japanese naval forces descending on Europe, both the CIA, MI6, and European Allied intelligence agencies must focus on garnering what information we can regarding our new enemy. _

_Barely an hour ago, we received information that has revealed our estimates of the Japanese population and industrial base to be utterly wrong. This was in no thanks to one of our top agents, whose mission was launched from Darwin, Australia..._

_**_

"Alright then, the drop point's coming! We're lucky to have made it this far!"

Australian pilot Henry Sweeny glanced over his shoulder as he sat in the cockpit of the specially modified, stealth-equipped Century Bomber as they flew towards Java, Indonesia—Imperial Japanese territory. In the back of the plane was a single man they had to insert—one of Allied Intelligence's most renowned agents, who was currently in the troop bay, sipping on a martini and kissing with one of the nurses from the Darwin airbase they had taken off from.

"Tell me when I've got a minute, old chap." Called the agent. "I need to finish off this...report."

The plane was suddenly rocked as the missile lock detection light activated. Bursts of light illuminated the night sky around the plane as missiles shot off from launchers on the Javanese coast below them. Sweeny fired off countermeasures, but he wasn't sure how long they'd last for.

"Okay, you've got a bloody minute!" he shouted.

Allied agent Nathan Craig Steel got up and put on his parachute, still wearing his customary tuxedo, as the doors of the bomber opened up.

"You're going in that?!" said one of the other bomber crewmen in disbelief.

"Of course. They won't be expecting it." Grinned Steel, as he leapt out through the doors.

Feeling the air rush in his face, Steel directed himself to the mass of lights that was Jakarta below. A heads-up display built into the expense shades he was waiting highlighted several objects identified via satellite—several battleships off the shore of the city, heavy railgun defensive positions, and of course the primary garrison base, his target. Calculating the necessary angle of descent Steel positioned himself to land to land at a building a short distance from said base.

Reaching the appropriate altitude, Steel unfurled his specially designed parachute, designed to blend in with its background. As he descended towards his target building, which his heads-up readout identified as a warehouse, there was a gust of wind, which blew him a block or two off course. Cursing, Steel braced himself as he headed right for the skylight of a more ornate building equally near the garrison base.

Crashing right through, he impacted right into a Jacuzzi, finding himself right in-between two strikingly attractive Indonesian women, both stark naked and sipping on drinks.

"Hello there, ladies." He said in perfect Indonesian. "Just dropping in. You don't mind, do you?"

Both of them smiled, and giggled. Steel gave his customary charming face—that usually made them forget just what a strange white man was doing in their bath after crashing in through the ceiling.

After a few minutes of 'cultural exchange', as his superiors would later put it, Steel was walking out of the room, brushing down his self-drying tuxedo. He appeared to be in a hotel of some kind, and what with all the staff walking around there appeared to be something going on.

Finding himself on a balcony overlooking a lobby, he saw a man in a Japanese general's uniform addressing a crowd of richly dressed figures. Deciding that going around in this would be conspicuous even for him, he produced a specially folded latex mask from his pocket and applied to his face, making him look like an average East Asian man. With that, he continued observing what was happening below.

"It is thanks to you, the industrialists and elite of Japan," the general was saying, "that our Divine Emperor's vision has been realized. Soon, the barbarians in Russia and Europe will be put down and brought to heel like the dogs that they are. Our nation may be small, but our resolve and advanced technology will sweep aside all obstacles. A toast, to our honourable soldiers fighting for our nation."

They raised glasses of sake and downed them as Steel headed down to the lobby. It would be best to mingle, find out what was happening.

"Here in Jakarta, one of the great jewels in the crown of our Empire, we will soon launch our assault into the continent of Oceania." Continued the general. "The entire Pacific rim will, in time, belong to us. Our forces will sweep aside even the might of the United States, as it did in Hawaii over thirty years ago."

Steel reached the lobby and mingled into the crowd. As he studied the various figures standing around him, he noted an electronic pad poking out of someone's pocket. Pickpocketing it discreetly, he quickly flicked through its contents—industrial turnouts, profit margins, population figures—perfect, that was just what he needed. Saved him the bother of going to that garrison base. Now, all he needed to do was to sneak out of here and...

"However," said the general, his voice taking on a more harsh tone, "the dogs will do all in their power to stop us. Let us not try and underestimate them, for that will be the mark of a fool. Let us not underestimate their own resolve technology, and above all..." his eyes set on Steel, "...their treachery. Isn't that right, gaijin?"

"Excuse me?" said Steel in Japanese as all eyes fixed on him. Guards in the corners trained their weapons on him.

"Do not consider me a fool. You do not walk like a Japanese, you were clearly not paying attention to my speech, and above all, your tuxedo is so obviously Italian. You should tread with more care, spy. Get him!"

"You expect me to grovel?"

"No, filthy gaijin, I expect you to die!"

In response, Steel quickly grabbed his watch and threw it to the ground, shielding his eyes, as it produced a flash that momentarily blinded and disorientated the guards. Pushing his way to the entrance, Steel threw himself through the glass doors and outside, as alarms began to ring through the hotel. Looking around, he observed the line of luxury, expensive cars lining the street in front of the hotel, no doubt belonging to the guests inside. Picking his favourite—a Honda—he jumped inside and quickly jury-rigged the ignition, driving out as guards spilled outside and fired at him.

Bullet holes appeared in the windscreen as he tore through the streets towards the waterfront. An Australian navy submarine was supposed to be in this vicinity, to pick him up once his mission was completed.

As he approached one of the huge railgun emplacements on the coast, miniaturized missiles impacted all around him, blasting up tarmac and setting off car alarms. Looking up, he saw a pair of flying, armored ladies, with swarms of missiles bursting out of their wings. As he drove right by the emplacement, he threw a jamming device, which fixed itself to the side of the fortification. Attracted towards the device, the missiles impacted right into the side of it, blasting a huge chunk out of it and hopefully putting it out for good.

Tearing onto the waterfront, Steel rolled out of the car and produced his trusty Glock and fired two shots into the sky. Both scored hits straight into the faces of those two flying things, which span out of control into the streets below. Looking around, Steel jumped into a speedboat and activated the ignition, tearing off into the sea towards one of the battleships moored off the city.

Producing a miniaturized explosive charge, he sped right by the ship, and threw the charge onto its hull, where it stuck. As he sped off into the distance, the charge detonated, blasting a huge chunk out of the ships' bow.

All in all, he thought smugly as the lights of Jakarta disappeared behind him, a most satisfactory job. Stirring, not shaky.


	16. Chapter XIV: Petrozavodsk

_Excerpt from Imperial Japanese propaganda leaflets targeted at Soviet troops, circa early 1974:_

_Soldiers of the Soviet Union. Why do you continue this futile struggle? Accept that your nation is now under the just rule of the Empire of the Rising Sun. Under our stewardship, you need not suffer the squalor and misery you enjoy right now. Under the watch of our great and immortal Emperor, you, your friends, your family, all will soon come to express gratitude for our altruistic campaign to alleviate the squalid masses of the world._

_And should you foolishly try to continue to fight back, you will be crushed. Your numbers are irrelevant. Your technology is irrelevant. None can stand before our spirit, our technology, and our strategy. Your military is crumbling before your eyes—ask yourself, will any pointless sacrifice you make truly make a difference? Throw down your arms. Your nation and your culture will adapt to serve us. Resistance is futile._

_**_

"Extra crispy!"

Lev Kamarov, Tesla Trooper First Class, grinned as volts of electrical charge shot from the emitters of his power armor, violently exploding the body of the Japanese soldier standing in front of him, splattering his blood against the reinforced metal of his suit. Around him, regular Red Army infantry provided fire support as they made their way through this suburb of Petrozavodsk. The place was crawling with these Nipponese apes, as their fighters, which could somehow transform into ground attack craft, clashed with jets of the Red Air Force in the sky above. Armored divisions of both sides had wrecked havoc in the city center as they exchanged fire, although the Japanese had deployed these...these...walking machines that tore into even the toughest tank concentration.

Bullets pinged off his armor as he made his way down a side street, with the suit responding to his muscle movements like a coat. Once, he had been a simple electrical engineer in Moscow, but had been specially selected for the Tesla Corps. He had fought in Europe, and after his first kill, a Polish soldier in Lodz, he had decided that there existed no more satisfactory method of killing then pumping charge right into a hapless little man. The suit was fairly cumbersome, and the little viewport didn't provide much in the way of vision, but it was tough, and that was what mattered.

One of the soldiers covering him was cut down as fire suddenly burst from the windows of a house they were passing. Turning around, Kamarov activated the emitters and poured electrical charge into the building, with the sound of agonized screaming coming from inside.

"That's right, little apes!" he laughed, his voice booming out of the suit speakers. "How do you like _a little shock therapy?!"_

"That is a very impressive piece of gear you have there, sir." Uttered one of the conscripts, a wide-eyed young boy with a Minsk accent.

"Yes. Any man in this machine will feel invincible!" laughed Lev, as they continued down the street, the pavement cracking under the footsteps of the suit. "Come on! There's plenty more apes for you little faggots to kill!"

As they continued, passing several apartment blocks razed by artillery or airstrikes, with the smell of cordite, burning wood, and fried flesh wafting through the air, three things burst out of the ground in front of them—Japanese troops, ones which had had recognized as anti-armor specialist, armed with beam-cutting weapons for use against armor. Turning the armor around to face them, he managed to barely dodge one pulsing beam that cut into the wall behind him, as the men opened fire.

Another beam was shot out as the tankbusters were gunned down, grazing the left arm of his suit and crippling it, singing and searing the metal. He felt nothing—he was practically fused to the suit, and could metal feel pain? Frying the bodies of the dead soldiers for good measure, he continued down the street—there was a staging area not far from here, he and the troops knew, and once they linked up there they could form a strong defence against the rest of the enemy forces.

The troops suddenly dived behind an abandoned truck as enemy fire came from another building up ahead, this time from the upper windows. So, the bastards had garrisoned themselves in. Staying in the open as accelerated rounds ricocheted off his armor, Kamarov began to move forward as fast as he could, straining the gyros and stabilizers to their limits, charging the suit down towards the building. He could hear them cry out as he came down on the building—heh, he could just imagine the looks on their ugly little faces.

Smashing straight through the wall, Kamarov found the lobby of the building turned into a medical triage, with wounded enemy soldiers hooked up to bizarre medical machines that he couldn't fathom and frankly didn't care about. Laughing manically, he activated his emitters, with bolts of intense electricity leaping from man to man, causing men's bodies to explode like ripe fruit or fry into ash. The machinery detonated, spitting sparks—the commissar would shout at him for denying potentially valuable enemy technology, but he didn't care.

With that, he aimed the emitters up and activated them, blasting the ceiling down, with the troops garrisoned above plummeting down with the masonry and the bricks. One of them landed right on top of him with the satisfying sound of bones breaking against metal. Another hit the floor right in from of him, screaming and writhing in agony. Chuckling, he stepped right on top of him, crushing him like an insect and smearing his innards onto the tiled floor. With that, he stepped back outside, with the conscripts emerging from cover and mopping up any skulking enemy soldiers.

"Excellent work, comrade!" one of them called to him. Heh—he found it amusing that while the enemies of the Soviet Union ran shitting their pants at the sight of lumbering, armoured Tesla power suits, her soldiers found them huge morale boosters, representing the toughness and unstoppable force that was the Red Army. With that, they followed him further through this area, with the sound of vehicle cannons resounding from several blocks away. He managed to look up as a flaming aircraft—whose he couldn't tell—spiralled out of control overhead and impacted into a nearby church.

"Comrade Kamarov! Up ahead!"

Standing in the middle of a street square was an old Tesla Coil—built there as a symbol of Soviet engineering, and of course in the case of any worker bread riots back in the sixties. It was surrounded by a ring-shaped barricade of sandbags and barbed wire, with dug-in soldiers desperately fighting back against encroaching Japanese soldiers and a single tank—one of those sleek 'Tsunami tanks', as he believed they were called—and losing. The coil itself still looked operable, and with that in mind they began to approach.

Charging and shouting battle cries, the conscripts distracted the enemy long enough for one of the soldiers defending the coil to grab one of the abandoned machinegun positions, mowing into the enemy troops. In response, several of them unsheathed swords—he had thought those were for ceremonial purposes only—and then his eyes widened as the swords glowed with heat. Screaming like witches, they charged the position, even as their comrades were mowed down without them. As he finally stepped into the square, they reached the machinegun position, their swords slicing through both the weapon and its operator like butter, the poor bastard's skin visibly frying as the superhot blade cut through it.

His suit was shaken as the tank fired, striking one of his armored shoulderpads. Calibrating the range of his emitters, he stood and let loose, pumping intense charge into the tank, overloading its armor and blowing it open, before the fuel and ammunition detonated, causing burning shrapnel to rain down on the men around it. Advancing towards the coil, even as the volleys of enemy rounds finally began to dig into his armor plating, he aimed for the lower part of the coil and gently pumped charge into it. Activating, the coil's computer system was linked with that of his suit, allowing him to make it target the enemy soldiers. Striking out, the soldiers the coil's bolts of electricity hit didn't explode or fry—they were just reduced to ashen skeletons.

"How do you like that?" laughed Kamarov, smashing aside a soldier charging at him, removing his torso from his lower body. "Here's your electric bill!"


	17. Interlude: Washington DC

"Mr. President, what do you recommend we do with those anti-war protestors we arrested in San Francisco earlier today?"

"Execute the assholes! Or mail their guts to Cherdenko, see what happens when he thinks he can put some of us in his pocket!"

Within the Oval Office, Howard T. Ackerman, 37th President of the United States, read through the copies of the day's newspapers—the New Frontiersman, the New York Times, the Washington Post. Rumors had been flying about over correspondence between the Allies and Moscow over the sudden military assault of the Empire of the Rising Sun. Of course, those damned cowards in Europe, those, those—liberals, were no doubt considering sucking the hairy balls of those commies, hoping it would buy them some time.

"Injection or electric chair?" standing over him was one of his top aides in the Ultrarepublican Party—L. Patrick Gray, who had helped him achieve victory in the election against Nixon and Carter. With the encouragement of all the other steadfast patriots in the party, Ackerman had resolved to follow the examples of other former great Presidents—McCarthy. Washington. No compromise with the enemy. No succumbing to weak-willed liberalism.

"Whatever! Just get 'em outta my hair!"

He began to manipulate the teleconference device on the table before him—time to speak to that damn Limey Bingham, see just what the European monkeys were keeping him in the dark over.

"Bingham!" he said as the Marshal's face flickered into view on the screen before him. "I heard a crazy rumor that I know can't possibly be true!"

"_What rumor are you referring to_?"

"The rumor that we're negotiating a 'peace treaty' with the commies!"

"_Actually, it's more of a ceasefire."_

"So you're telling me it is true!"

"_Well, we've already exhausted all of our forces pushing the Russians out of Europe. And now that we have a common enemy..."_

"Bullpocky!" spat the president. Those damn fools. They really had gone and done it. Well, that was what came from allowing liberals to interfere in government. "You know those Russians can't be trusted! They hate everything we stand for! Freedom, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, apple pie...did I say freedom? Well, it's worth saying again!"

"_The leaders of all the other Allied nations already agreed..." _

"Not me! Not the US of bygod A! You're making a very big mistake, my friend, you mark my words!"

The screen flickered out as Ackerman struck the table.

"Did you see that goddamn smug little limey? They really think this is gonna work through!" he sighed. Sometimes it felt that his office was the last bastion of sanity on this world. Even the original Republican party was too soft, as people like that Nixon proved—he honestly wanted to give anti-war dissidents 'fair trials' and bullshit like that! At least American values could survive through him and his administration.

"With all due respect, sir, it does make logical sense. If we can get the Soviets to turn their backs, then when this is all over we can kick 'em right in the pants..."

"Assumin' they don't do so first." Ackerman sighed. "Fine. The Limey wants a ceasefire? We'll play along. Now, we've got an excuse to finally knock those slanty-eyed, rice-eating monkeys from their little high throne."

He span the globe on the desk before him.

"The Pacific. It used to belong to us, until December 1941—trust that damn liberal democrat fool Roosevelt to hand an entire ocean to them just because they blew up a few of our ships. We'll sweep them clean from it. Get me the Pentagon and Allied Command—you should know that war keeps the people on their toes, remind them why they need to keep patriotic. And if these Japs and their little empire make this war more interesting, then excellent!"


	18. Chapter XV: Scapa Flow

_Excerpt from Japanese naval transmission to Admiral Shirada, circa 15__th__ January 1974:_

_Our fleets, guided by divine wind, sweep away the feeble resistance presented to us by our enemies. From our great floating platform, currently moving into position in the North Sea, we strike at the cowardly dogs in Scotland, Norway, and Northern England, sowing fear among their miserable populations. Our second platform advances to Gibraltar; other than what they possess in the North Sea, the Allies have concentrated their fleets in the Mediterranean, to combat Soviet Black Sea forces; we shall trap both there and destroy what's left of them. _

_As this message is being sent, we are assaulting the Allied naval base in Scapa Flow. The base is lightly defended, as the Allies have spread the forces once concentrated there. Victory is guaranteed; enemy air superiority is being negated as our bombardment and bombers destroy their airbases. I expect this to further kindle the spirit of our soldiers._

_Long live the Emperor! _

_日本__国_

_**_

"Main guns! Fire!"

On the bridge of the Shogun-class battleship Akagi, Captain Okita Kando watched with pride as the forward railguns of the battleship fired, sending superheated slugs in the directions of the coastal fortifications of the Allied base here at Scapa Flow, in the Scottish Orkney islands. They had descended from the Empire's bases in the Arctic, built up discreetly over the years, striking down on the Allies like lightning from heaven. Columns of smoke rose from the burning wrecks of outdated Allied naval ships that had put up bold but feeble resistance.

As the guns fired again, he checked the readouts on the computer screens next to him, beamed from battlefield drones surveying the area from the skies. He was a student of Isoroku Yamamoto, the man who had executed the attack on Pearl Harbor that had gained the Empire Hawaii back in 1941 and thus the stepping stone for its path to ascension, and developing those ideas to suit the modern age. He was a student of the old, and the new, like all good servants of the Emperor. He could not fail. If he did, returning home was not an option.

"Allied aircraft, incoming!" reported one of his crewmen on the bridge, manning a HUD computer console. He could still not help but marvel at all the technological marvels Japan had produced in her decades of intensive research, decades ahead of all her competitors. What more evidence was there for her superiority?

"Where are those damn Tengus?" he demanded.

"Engaged!"

"Brace for impact!"

Allied Vindicator bombers swooped overhead, dropping munitions that struck the armoured hull of the battleship, crippling the armor on the starboard side and rocking her. Tengu fighters and Mitsubishi interceptors moved into attack them, but heavy flak and SAMs were coming from the Allied military installations around. These fools had more mettle then he had realized, he smile. Perhaps they would be a worthy enemy after all.

"Where are those Seawings that were supposed to be covering us?" he demanded.

"Currently with Admiral Yamaguchi's Naginata group!"

Dammit, he thought. Inconveniences were always guaranteed in times like this. Nevertheless, he was an officer of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Nothing less than total devotion was to be expected.

"Advance!" he commanded. "Level the Allied installations! Leave nothing standing!"

"_Hai!_" The 400mm deck railguns rang out again, causing a massive explosion that consumed an Allied installation on one of the islands ahead. Kando's attention was then drawn to the Royal Navy ships emerging from one of the huge clouds of smoke covering part of the area—outdated auxiliary ships, being thrown at them in a last-ditch attempt to slow them down by the Allied cowards. He smiled as one of them was blown apart by a single railgun strike by one of the other Shoguns present, showering the adjacent ones with flaming debris.

To his surprise, the ships opened fire, armed with modern missile systems. Some of the missiles were reflected by the ECM fields generated by the battleship, but one of their shells struck the forward railgun battery, crippling it.

"I want engineering to fix that at once!"he shouted as alarms blared. He looked up as more Allied bombers flew overhead, crippling some of the other naval units. At the same time, modern ships—Assault destroyers, gunboats, and so forth—were emerging from the smoke, firing at the Japanese cruiser and battleships, with clearly nothing left to lose. However, these barbarians, he knew, had no knowledge of honor nor of wisdom. They were inferior, bound to fail. He would demonstrate this.

"All ahead!" he bellowed. "RAMMING SPEED!"

The battleship turned itself in the direction of the Allied ships and began to surge forward as power was transferred to the engines. Kando steeled himself, as sporadic Allied fire came their way, as light coastal artillery batteries spat fire at them haphazardly, some of the shells impacting harmlessly against the armor of the battleship. Up ahead, the Allied ships began to change their course to face the Akagi as she bore down on them, increasing in speed every moment. An Allied aircraft swooped overhead, strafing the battleship with its machineguns, doing little more than spreading cracks on some of the windows. Kando grinned as the enemy ships came right up—he could just imagine the poor fools in there, wondering was about to happen.

Impacting straight into an assault destroyer, the armored prow of the Shogun smashed through it nearly effortlessly, its momentum carrying it forward, capsizing another Allied cruiser. Finally, it came to a stop as the engines died down, ripping a gash in the hull of another Allied destroyer. On the decks of the Shogun, crewmen armed with rifles fired into the water, killing any survivors in there. It was for their own good; far better to be killed in battle than be taken prisoner. He would have expected them to do the same to him had he been in their position, but they were soft, insisting on taking prisoners when there was no need, feeding and mollycoddling them despite their lack of honor. These westerners truly perplexed and disgusted him.

With the Allied ships in disarray as they tried to rearrange themselves, the Naginata cruisers moved in, firing spreads of torpedoes that tore into the hulls of the Allied battleships, boring right through their hulls and detonating within. Yari mini-subs moved beneath the waves, pinpointing any mines or underwater emplacements the Allies had positioned, and destroying them. The battle would be over in moments, Kando knew.

"Sir! We're receiving a transmission!" announced his first mate Kodai.

"Put it through."

"This is Admiral MacCrae of the Allied Combined Navy." The flickering face of an Allied senior naval officer, speaking in a heavy Scottish accent, came through on one of the screens by his chair. "To preserve the lives of our men and yours, our forces here offer you their surrender."

"Surrender?" laughed Kando. "Admiral MacCrae, do you honestly think we have any intention of taking prisoners from you cowards?"

"We've had enough!" said the Admiral, hysterically. "We do not want to continue this! Please, take us in!"

"I will make my answer short: no."

"Damn you!" said the admiral, as tears welled in his eyes. "Damn you rice-eating bastards! At least Ivan had some mercy! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

Kando switched off the screen.

"Sir," reported gunnery officer Mori reported. "Forward guns online gain."

"FIRE."

The railguns opened fire, tearing into the remaining Allied ships. The rest of the Shoguns moved in, ripping apart the rest of the Allied naval base as the cruisers swept the waters of any survivors. Mitsubishi bombers soared overhead, depositing bunker-busting munitions to eliminate reinforced emplacements. An explosion flared in the distance as the long-range guns of the floating platform, firing from miles away, targeted what he guessed were fleeing Allied targets.

"Victory is ours." He declared. "The Allied gate to the North Sea has been broken. Just as our Emperor promised, we are unstoppable! Now, take in what you have learned today, and prepare for further glory!"

The crew cheered.

"BANZAI!"

He gazed out at the smoke engulfing the remains of the Scapa Flow naval base. Was this all the self-professed mightiest nations in the world had to offer? Pleas for surrender and half-hearted resistance? They were weak. Their time was over.


	19. Chapter XVI: Stalingrad

_Excerpt from KGB intelligence report delivered to Premier Cherdenko circa 21__st__ January 1974:_

_Japanese forces have advanced extremely rapidly roughly along the path of the river Kama. From what we can gather from vehicles and personnel we have captured, the Japanese perfected miniaturized robotics about a decade ago in a period of extremely rapid technological advancement that we overlooked due to their closed borders—owing to this, logistics have generally been a negligible issue for them. Currently, they are set to assault Stalingrad, and if they reach the Caspian oil fields then our war machine could suffer severe supply shortages._

_Generally, our technicians and scientists have been stunned by their technological level, at least several decades ahead of our own. Limited satellite reconnaissance over China and Indonesia indicate vast mining operations, as well as in Korea. When we factor in their subject nations and their population, the natural and human resources of the Japanese Empire are far greater than we care to realize. It will be down to the Allies to strike at them at their heart, given the state of our Pacific fleet._

_For now, we must take faith in the people and hope the Allies do not take the opportunity to stab us in the back. We may have beaten back their assault into the Leningrad Oblast, but they are coming close to striking at Moscow itself._

**

"May the Emperor live for ten thousand years! Death to the foreign barbarians! Death to all who oppose Japan! BANZAI!"

Asuka Katsuragi took a moment for her body to fully synch with her flight armor, as status readouts flashed onto her helmet visor. She was a warrior-woman of the Imperial Aerial Infantry Woman's Corps, or as they were more commonly known, the 'Rocket Angels'. The shock infantry of the Imperial Japanese Army, capable of striking on anything on the battlefield like lightning from heaven. Prior to this, Asuka had proven her worth in putting down uprisings against the Empire by worthless heaven peasants in Taiwan, Borneo, and Manchuria, and for this reason she had been chosen to participate in the force to assault the main Soviet defences in Stalingrad. The city named after the man who had thrust them onto the world stage. If it fell, so would their spirit, as the Emperor, in his wisdom everlasting, had decreed.

Down below, waves of tanks and Tengu mechs advanced across the grassy steppes, with sporadic and pathetic Soviet artillery and howitzer rounds impacting in their area. Above them, in the cloudy skies, jets of the Red air force clashed with those of the Imperial Japanese Air Force, with the barbarians no doubt panicking over the superiority of the Japanese military in every respect. Blue flashes burst down below as wave-force energy artillery and railguns shot out at enemy entrenchments miles away, with explosions lighting up in reply. With perfect co-ordination, they would seize this wretched barbarian city and bring it to heel. As Sun Tzu had said: _'__When a river moves boulders, it is because of its momentum. When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing.'_

"Daughters of the Emperor! Advance!" The voice of wing leader Kururugi rang out over comms channels. Thrusters bursting, the 3rd squadron of the Imperial Aerial Infantry Woman's Corps surged forward over the battlefield, targeting systems seeking barbarians to annihilate. Nano-systems built into their suits self-replication of munitions, greatly boosting their ordnance capabilities; ever since the Great Triumph at Pearl Harbor in 1941, the Japanese Empire had been in a period of near constant technological advancement, and now they would demonstrate this to the witless ignorant masses of the Soviet Union and the west. Their own war machines and technologies would be swept aside like toys.

"Enemy vehicles, attempting to outflank our attack force! Destroy them!"

Enemy 'Hammer tanks' and older T-51 tanks were advancing across the fields, some of them already attempting long-rang potshots; the fools were desperate enough to be throwing anything they could scavenge! But then again, according to the briefing, a lot of old Soviet equipment was stored at the munitions facilities around Stalingrad. As if it would make any difference.

"Targets acquired."

"_Behold! Death comes to the barbarians from heaven! Sweep them away with divine wind!"_

Miniaturized missiles shot out from the wings of the Rocket Angels, pouring down on the advancing tanks, which looked like little toys from this height. Soviet drivers and gunners looked up, with Asuka's visor being able to zoom in on them and show their looks of horror as the missiles struck the tanks, tearing them apart. Haphazard flak and machinegun fire spat in their direction, prompting a few of the Angels to spit flares, but Asuka was no coward. Swooping down, she spotted a single Soviet tankist crawling from the wreckage of his vehicle; activating her paralysis beam, freezing him in his spot in incredible agony. Grabbing him by the neck, she ascended upwards hundreds of feet above the battlefield before dropping him, watching in amusement as he plummeted before impacting into the ground. Cowardly vermin, these gaijin. How could they hope to match the glorious Empire of the Rising Sun?

"_Daughters of the Emperor! Reposition yourselves near the Volga river! Our amphibious forces advance along it, to encircle the fools—see that they are covered!"_

Their objective location was flashed onto the basic battlefield map in the corner of her HUD—getting used to all the clutter on her visor had been something she had found quite difficult, but as a daughter of the Emperor, she had overcome that, as she would all challenges. Shooting above the battlefield, as Imperial bombers and variable helicopter gunships struck down on isolated enemy units, the wing of Angels bore down on the Volga—Imperial transports and amphibious tanks were swimming down it. Her HUD immediately highlighted enemy gunships and armor on the river's banks bearing down on them—a half-hearted attempt to prevent themselves from being outmanoeuvred. She almost felt pity for these inferior cretins.

"_Look at that! They really are grabbing everything they can!"_

Beside the waves of Twinblade gunships and Hammer tanks came Mil Mi-24 'Hind' gunships and TA-49 'Mammoth Tanks'—the ancestors of the Twinblade and the ferocious Apocalypse tanks respectively, which had aided the Soviets greatly when they had began expanding into Europe in the late 1940s and 50s, but now they would be torn apart even faster than the contemporary equipment they were using. Accelerating forward, Asuka came down on one of the Twinblades as her sisters poured missiles onto the tanks—she was able to see the pilot in the cockpit, looking shocked at the armored figure coming towards him.

Just before she was about to slam into the front of the gunship, she latched onto the nose and smashed her armored metal fist through the canopy, grabbing the pilot and ripping him out of his harness, sending him plummeting down in the cold water of the Volga. Spinning out of control, the Twinblade collided into one of the Hinds, with both exploding in a fireball. Strafing to the side to avoid the gunship machinegun fire coming at her, Asuka opened fire with more missiles, targeting the rotors and cockpits of the gunships. She grinned as several more came down, spiralling out of control either into the river or onto the tanks on its bank—one of them impacted right atop one of the lumbering Mammoth tanks, engulfing both in flames.

"_Enemy flak soldiers! Scatter!_" Flak bursts exploded around the Angels as Soviet infantrymen lugging bulky anti-air guns appeared on some nearby rooftops, firing away—penal troops, according to intelligence, as not even Soviet generals would allow normal soldiers to wield such dangerous weapons. To her side, Angel Hitomi screamed as flak punctured her fuel lines, sending her plummeting down—Asuka felt no remorse. She had died honorably in the Emperor's name, and that was all that mattered.

The building the flak soldiers were standing atop exploded in a cloud of flame and dust as wave artillery struck it, allowing the Angels to push on. Down below, the vehicles moving along the river moved onto the bank, seamlessly reconfiguring themselves. Up ahead, she could make out a large bronze statue of Josef Stalin himself, gazing over the city that bore his name. It was Stalin who had began the Soviet Union's quest to bring all under its banner, the one who had spurred its arrogance—now their own vanity would come crumbling down with his monument.

"_Soviet fighters, approaching! Countermeasures, immediately!_"

The Angels spat flares and chaff as Soviet MiG and Sukhoi fighters came in low, blazing away with Gatling guns and letting loose with missiles. Two more sisters were blown apart as bullets tore through their suits or missiles incinerated them—Asuka instead diverted all suit power to the thrusters, shooting after one of the MiGs as it passed, the exhaust and air current nearly sending her flying. As the fighter began to pull up, she grabbed onto the tail and dug into it with her metal first, before firing a single missile into its cockpit, filling it with flames. She pulled off as she reached cloud level, with the fighter plunging downwards. Around her, Tengu fighters and Mitsubishi interceptors moved to interdict and destroy the enemy fighters—there was no doubt as to who would triumph for her. Looking down upon the city below, looking almost like a map, her HUD highlighted Imperial forces coming on it from all sides—she could imagine the panicking, cowardly dogs festering in their homes, who would no doubt soon bow to their new masters.

"_Bring down the monument of their corrupt forefather! Destroy their spirit! Expose their dishonor! Banzai!"_

Swooping down, Asuka targeted the statue of Stalin as Soviet positions began to crumble under relentless assault and perfectly executed tactics, as columns of smoke rose into the sky. Targeting the pedestal, she let loose a volley, slamming straight into the bronze edifice. Slowly, with its support crumbling, the statue toppled over, crushing a Soviet tank right beside it. The hearts of the scum would sink at this sight, and the spirit of their own soldiers would burn ever brighter upon seeing it.

Looking at the scene around her, Asuka could only hope that the Russians were ready to submit to Japan's ever-expanding 'sphere of co-prosperity'.


	20. Chapter XVII: Darwin

_Notice issued to inhabitants of the Northern and Eastern Australian coasts, circa early February 1974:_

_The Prime Minister has announced a state of civil emergency and thus urges civilians not to panic. Threat of imminent Japanese incursion has been confirmed. Therefore, citizens are requested, if possible, to move away from the coasts and join civil defence units currently being set up in town centers and military installations. Curfew is in effect. Rationing is in effect. _

_Citizens are also asked to monitor all of Asian descent and report all suspicious activity immediately. All citizens of Japanese, Chinese, or Indonesian extraction are informed that they should keep within their homes and are warned that approaching government or military buildings will result in suspicion or arrest. Leniency will not be practiced._

_Furthermore, the Prime Minister has ordered blackouts to take effect over fear of enemy bombing and bombardment, and also requests all armed citizens to join military units currently preparing to repel enemy invasion at key points. Roadways and other ways of public transport are being prioritized for use by military forces or militia. Anyone who attempts to obstruct defence soldiers will automatically be guilty of treason. _

_You are reminded not to panic. All intelligence indicates that enemy forces massing to attack are incapable of gaining any real beachhead. _

_Keep calm, and carry on._

"Steady on, mate! You want me to throw up me brekkie on ya?"

In the back seat of a MG-68 Multigunner Infantry Fighting Vehicle, Australian infantry sergeant Sean Richardson held on as the small vehicle, descended from outback dune buggies, careered along Casuarina Beach in Darwin, dotted with landmines, hedgehogs, barbed wire, and other nasty surprises left for the Japanese forces spotted gathering in the Timor Sea. The bulk of the Australian army had been fighting along with the rest of the Allies in Europe and elsewhere, leaving but greenies and drongos to form the bulk of the defence against what everyone had pretty much decided was a Japanese invasion force—something they had feared when the Japanese Empire had made its expansion in the 1940s.

"Almost there, sarge!" called the driver, as the IFV shot over dunes and bumps, with the gunner manning the configured machinegun looking towards the turquoise waters of the Timor Sea. Japanese scout jets had already been sighted overhead, defying anti-air batteries with ECM and stealth and other such technological crap Sean couldn't get his head around. Crickey, he thought; last time anyone had seen the Japs in force they were using rusty tankettes that wouldn't have cut it in the Somme.

"Okay, pull up here!"

The IFV careered to a halt near a part of the beach where soldiers, local militia, and Allied Peacekeeper soldiers, their armor colored khaki for this environment, had dug in, setting up heavy machineguns and mortars for any potential landings. A short distance behind them, on the beachfront, were hastily set up defence guns and anti-air batteries, ready for whatever could be thrown at them. Getting out of the little vehicle, Sean noted the presence of some ANZAC soldiers from New Zealand—bloody Kiwis, couldn't they defend their own damn little rock?

"Sarge is here! Atten-shun!"

The soldiers exchanged salutes with Sean as he took position with them behind some sandbags and concrete barricades, glancing down towards Darwin Allied Naval Base, perhaps the only Allied installation with a good reach into the underbelly of the Japanese Empire—gathered there were Canadian, Australian, and elements of the US Navy and Royal Navy, under the umbrella of the Allied combined fleet. Despite this, many ships there had been diverted to elsewhere in the Pacific—where they being sent off? To strike at Japanese bases at Hawaii or Midway? To protect California? Either way, Sean had two words to describe the people responsible for that decision: Fucking Wankers.

"At ease, lads!" he smiled. A cheerful attitude was always a good way to get spirits up in a time like this.

"Any more reinforcements comin', sir?"

"Not that I know of, mate, but that doesn't mean we're going to run like a couple of Koalas from a lawnmower!" grinned Sean, as he readied his high-caliber shotgun and cocked it for emphasis. He had seen the reports on the Jap's progress in Russia, and in the North Sea. Sure, they had some fancy toys—fancier than anyone could have imagined. But laser robots or amphibious tanks didn't mean shit against good ol' beer-fuelled Aussie spirit.

"Incoming!"

The troops ducked as wings of enemy fighters screeched high in the sky overhead, as flak bursts and SAMs peppered the clouds immediately afterwards. Seconds later, the troops gasped as high-energy railgun slugs shot out from the horizon, impacting into the beachfront buildings, each round utterly pulverizing any building it hit. More rounds were poured into the naval base, ripping through the hulls of the naval ships there like they were paper, filling the water with fuel and the blood of their crew. The bombardment continued, some of the shells hitting the beach where they threw up geysers of sand, with most of them ripping apart what was left of the naval base, destroying the warehouses and fuel storage depots. Within moments, huge swathes of Darwin were engulfed in belching black smokestacks rising into the flame, as local emergency services and Allied Peacekeeper forces rushed to keep order. In the sky above, Allied jets began to clash with their Japanese counterparts, the high-altitude dogfights faintly visible with the flashes of explosions and missile launches. Looking upon this hellish view, Sean had one thing to say:

"Blimey, it's getting a bit hot in 'ere, eh, lads?"

The bombardment continued for a few more moment, as the out-of-sight assailants, presumably those battleships the intelligence reports had been screaming about, refused to let up, levelling entire suburb blocks and rendering more portions of the town unrecognizable. Finally, it subsided, leaving the sounds of shouting and siren coming from within the town. Nervously looking over their barricades, the troops were surprised by what they saw: a row of Riptide transports, swimming through the waves towards the beach.

"Sarge, we due for naval reinforcements?" asked one of the men.

"I'll check." Said Sean, activating his radio headset. "Oi, command. You sendin' us some Riptides?"

"_Yer off yer bleedin' rocker, mate? Those bloody fish-eating arseholes just blew up our biggest naval base in the country! We can't sent ya dog shit for now!_"

"Charmin'." Muttered Sean, rolling his eyes. "Er, no, it don't look like it."

"Something's not right about this." Said one of the machinegunners, as the transports continued towards the beach, plowing through the surf. Cautiously, he let off a burst from the gun towards one of the transports, striking it right on the front—then, to their surprise, it _flickered_, then somehow the appearance of a Riptide faded away to reveal a streamlined, curved landing hovercraft emblazoned with Rising Sun insignias.

"Strewth." Said Sean in disbelief. "What'll those crazy Japs think of next?"

"Orders, sarge?" said one of the troops as the transports shedded their 'disguises', bearing right down onto the sands, knocking aside some of the hedgehogs and simply floating over some of the mines.

"Don't be such a whacker—fire, you dumbarses, fire!"

The machineguns and assault rifles of the men let rip as the front doors of the landers fell open, disgorging soldiers who immediately began charging their position waving outdated rifles and weapons—Sean recognized them as Indonesians, Chinese, Filipinos. Fucking Japs. Send the subjects first to expend the enemy ammo, eh? Wishing pity for these poor souls, he raised his shotgun and opened fire as they continued to charge right into the arcs of the machineguns, which spat spent shells onto the sands. Mortars threw up sand and some of the transports were blown apart as the heavier weapons emplacements behind them rang out. Limbs and entrails were thrown up as some of the auxiliaries rushed right onto hidden landmines, some of them being riddled with shrapnel before falling onto barbed wire.

"Check your ammo, lads!" yelled Sean as a new wave of transports approached the beach. Seconds later, he was forced to duck as a black-hulled enemy jet screamed overhead, nearly tearing apart their ear drums, strafing the rear positions and sending accelerated heated rounds into their ammunition storage, blasting most of them apart and raining debris down on their position. Momentarily confused by the blast and the noise, Sean managed to orientate himself to find a Korean sneaking up on him with a rifle, and immediately swung the shotgun in his direction.

"G'day, mate!" he grinned. "Welcome to Down Under!"

He fired the shotgun, damn near taking the poor bastard's head off. With the last few stragglers on the beach being mowed down as the transports moved aside for the next wave, he prepared for another strafing as the enemy jet came down low again—only to his surprise, it decelerated, and then began to transform and reconfigure into what looked like some sort of hovering robot. Yes, he decided, the Japs really were stark raving bonkers.

The men cried out in surprise as the hovering mech opened fire, sending more slugs slicing right through their flesh. Skimming over the beach, the thing continued to strafe them, as Sean scooped up a nearby M16 and loaded its grenade launcher, before emerging from behind cover and firing, sending the grenade flying through the air and detonating against the mech's cockpit, blasting it apart and sending it collapsing onto the sands of the beach, just as the landers disgorged the next wave.

"_BANZAAAAAAIIIII!_"

"Aw, shit." He muttered as Ashigaru-like infantrymen came charging out of the transports, firing wildly with more superheated rounds that cut through the sandbags and barricades. Some of them produced katanas—Sean was about to scoff when the blades began to glow bright orange, and fired again as they continued to rush along the beach, straight into the machinegun fire. Clearly, those stupid Japs were expecting their ammunition and morale to be expended by the human waves of their auxiliaries. Well, the bastards clearly hadn't visited Oz much.

"Keep up the fire! Keep up the fire!" he shouted as grenades were thrown onto the sand, riddling more of the samurai wannabes with shrapnel. He heard a scuffling noise to his side, and turned around to see one of the Japanese infantrymen attempting to sneak up on him with a wakizashi short sword, his face contorted as it could only be by sheer fanaticism and brainwashing nationalism.

"That's not a knife!" laughed Sean, pointing at the sword, causing the man to stop in confusion. Then, he unsheathed a huge machete from his ankle.

"_This _is a knife!"


	21. Chapter XVIII: Arkhangelsk

_Notice issued to submariners of the Red Navy, circa early 1974:_

_Comrades! Leave your despair behind you, and heed not the words of treacherous defeatists. The yellow dogs from Japan try and assault our great motherland, but who thinks they can really succeed? How can such a miserably tiny nation of midgets with fancy toys triumph against us, the mightiest power on Earth? Some may say that they can choke us from the sea, but of course, you will show them differently! Fight to the last man and torpedo, and nothing will stand in our way!_

_However, do not forget some very important points:_

_*Keep quiet! The enemy's scanners tune in to your noise. If the comrade to your left makes a crack about the Premier's mother and a bear, try and keep it in!_

_*No smoking! Tobacco is a capitalist invention designed to squeeze money from the proletariat. Lighted cigarettes could light explosive torpedoes or fuel, or choke you all in disgusting fumes!_

_*Keep yourself busy! You could be stuck underwater for days on end. Find something to do, lest you suffer from sea dementia! Try reading the works of Marx, or play a game of pin the mustache on the Stalin. _

_Naturally, we know you will not follow any of this. That said, we wish you brave comrades at sea the greatest of luck!_

"What's that dripping sound?"

The Akula-class submarine _Krasny Potok, _lurking under the icy waters of Archangelsk, was known for being able to stay hidden from enemy scanners and sonar for inordinate periods of time, earning such a reputation that sailors on other vessels often joked that she could swim right up to the White House if she wanted to. However, as Captain Trikov peered through the periscope, listening to the constant beeping of the sonar set behind him, he was sure that the crew shared no such optimism; friendly forces were a distance away at best, with those accursed Japanese dogs scattering their naval forces in the Arctic. Then, there was the threat of enemy submarines; in this case, nimble attack submersibles that wouldn't show up as easily as larger threats the Akula had been built to combat.

"Enemy submersibles lurking everywhere like fucking eels…missile cruisers on the surface that could fucking see us if we were in Egypt…feels like old times, eh, comrade?"

Trikov turned to see his first officer Vytautas, a bearded Lithuanian who, somehow, sounded more Scottish than Baltic. The man was a fine seaman, respected by the crew, and above all, competent. Maybe that was the secret to his success, thought Tritov; he got men who were actually dedicated to their jobs, as opposed to illiterates rushed through naval academy or trying to get a few shiny promotions. In any case, now their resolve was to be tested to the limit.

"Keep us still." Breathed Trikov, as the _Potok _by the immense bulk of an iceberg, running as silent as she could. "Anything on ranged sonar?"

"_Nyet, _captain."

"Make sure those torpedoes are ready…"

Silence fell over the cramped interior of the submarine as people waited tensely, with nothing to break the atmosphere except for the occasional worrying dripping and the constant beeping of instruments. The engines had been slowed almost to a stop—no sense in giving the enemy any wake to detect—and Trikov hoped that the iceberg would cover up most of their detectable mass. He knew that the submarine's reinforced hull would offer them some protection against enemy torpedoes, but these goats wielded some surprising munitions; those cruisers they fielded, apparently called 'Naginatas', seemed to be able to spew ungodly amounts of torpedoes. All the more reason to play this careful.

"Captain, sonar's got something…"

The ice was broken. Sitting up, the crew waited for Trikov to give out orders, as he made his way over to the sonar operator's console, ducking in the low space. There appeared to be a small object rapidly approaching them—one of the enemy mini-subs, no doubt. A scout. Inevitably, at the rate it was going around, he thought, it would spot them, either using some fancy scanners of theirs or by sight. His only option would be to destroy it before it could pose a threat to him, and then move away as quickly as possible, and lose any pursuers in the ice flows not far from here. A lot or risks there, he knew, but there was little other choice.

"Prepare to release torpedo." He breathed. "We pull this off right, comrades, we sail into history."

More silence passed, as the sonar beeping intensified. The enemy mini-sub appeared to be passing by on the other side of the iceberg; Trikov estimated about a minute before it would pass in front of him. He calculated the torpedo speed, the angle of their submarine…everything the naval academy had taught him, even if not all of it was actually useful.

"Enemy vessel coming about, sir…"

"Fire tube number one." Hissed Trikov.

The submarine juddered as a torpedo was released from the forward tubes, shooting forward into the dark, icy Arctic waters, as the mini-sub came into view, illuminating the space around it with searchlights. It paused as it saw the torpedo coming for it, before apparently attempting to dive down, to get out of the way. The men watched on a grainy monitor displaying camera feed from the torpedo as the mini-sub moved downwards, out of the way of the torpedo.

"Detonate." Snapped Trikov.

With the flick of a switch, the torpedo exploded, knocking the mini-sub off course and cracking its canopy open. He could imagine the pilot panicking as icy water flooded in, chilling his skin down to the bone. But that was not important right now. He had no doubt sent off a signal betraying their presence here; time to make off like a fisherman on the Volga.

"All ahead, full!" he shouted, as the crewmen stirred into activity. He expected enemy vessels to try and intercept him, but given the level of ice on the water, that wouldn't as easy for them as they would hope.

"Let's show them how danger runs deep." Barked Vytautas, as the engines brought the submarine surging forward, blowing away bits of debris left from the mini-sub. Already, long-range sonar was picking up surface contacts, as he had thought. More than he expected—but he did not intend to die drowning and freezing in this tub just yet.

"Bastards are closing in faster than I thought…" the sonar operator uttered, as Trikov turned in his direction. He could safely respect the naval engineering of the Japanese, he decided. Their shipbuilders surely made the best contractors the Allied dogs had at their disposal look like canoe-weaving tribesmen in the Amazon. A pity, that he would have to send them to the dark bottom of these waters.

"Sir! I think they're releasing…"

The submarine shook slightly as muffled booms came from outside; they were dropping high-explosive depth charges, attempting to bracket him into a certain place where further charges or sub-killer torpedoes could get him. Fuck your mother, I'm not falling for that, he thought; the ice sheets were only a few minutes ahead, and unless they had an icebreaker handy, he couldn't imagine them getting through all that. He then grabbed onto the periscope as another depth charge detonated, causing the red lights illuminating the cabin to flicker.

"Shit." Muttered Vytautas as he peered through the periscope. "One of those bastards is trying to get ahead of us."

"Ready the Big Ones." Said Trikov calmly. "We'll just have to scratch those shiny paintjobs of theirs."

The Big Ones; what Soviet submariners called the high-powered enlarged torpedoes each Akula carried, powerful enough to rip a hole in any armor that could float. Not as fast as regular torpedoes, but they were certainly good at giving the fishes some new habitats to live in.

"Captain! Incoming sub-killers!"

"Brace yourselves!"

The submarine was shaken as enemy torpedoes detonated nearby, shaken by the shockwave. He heard shouts as leaks were apparently sprung in a few places; such was the consequence of being out to see for months on end without maintenance. Producing a cigarette from his pocket, a quality black market one he had got in Murmansk, he lit it up as more muffled explosions came from outside. If he was going down, at least he'd go down with some good nicotine in his mouth.

"Big Ones ready, captain!"

"We should fire now, before they can nail us." Urged Vytautus.

"No…wait…"

Another explosion, louder than the last. Screams of panic as another leak was sprung, apparently larger than the last.

"Captain! We can't take much more of this!"

"I said wait…"

A few moments, and they'd be under the ice…

"Release forward tubes!"

Two huge torpedoes shot out from the submarine as she began to descend deeper, to avoid the ice hanging in the water. The enemy cruiser ahead, sitting there and releasing charges, attempted to manoeuvre out of the way, but this merely presented more vulnerable parts of her hull as the torpedoes impacted straight into her, tearing through her white-painted body and detonating within, flooding her lower decks near instantaneously.

Cheers rang out through the _Krasny Potok _as Trikov chuckled. Yes, this old shark still had some of that old luck left in her.


	22. Chapter XIX: Lisbon

_Excerpt from The Art of New Ninjutsu, by Josho Yamaguchi:_

_The gaijin laughs when he hears of tales of the ninja, the assassins who perfected the many arts needed to accomplish their trade, from disguise to swordsmanship to chemistry. He considers them something out of a children's tale, scoffing when he hears of figures that could rend themselves invisible with the most graceful of ease, who could slaughter armies of warriors in their sleep. Let him laugh. It will merely see to it that he does not see the blade that will slit his throat, or the poison that will drip down his mouth._

_Even in this day of technology, the art of the ninja is not obsolete. A man must lend himself to the traditional methods, for to become overly reliant on fancy toys and technology makes a man weak. Let the katana become your friend in the field, the shadows your comforting allies, and your mind your most sharpened weapon. Sow fear among the enemy, for they cannot fight what they cannot see. Do all that you can to disrupt their chains of war, for even the mightiest of warriors will succumb to a great number of stabs and cuts. _

Such was the power of the Emperor, that spirits danced at his disposal, ready to slay His enemies before they could even react.

Knowing the truth in such maxims, Imperial Shinobi Hayabusa glanced upwards at the Castle of São Jorge, overlooking this decadent gaijin city of Lisbon, as he crept along its roofs, some of them ablaze from bombing raids and bombardment from the invincible floating platform posed to seize the straits of Gibraltar, illuminating the night sky above. Jerónimos Monastery had already been razed by a superheated railgun shot delivered from hundreds of kilometres away, and while the locals could weep, they would soon learn to be grateful to his Divine Grace, for structures beyond their comprehension would be erected in its place. Japan's Empire would soon stretch all across this continent—the fact that she was not as big as other nations would be of irrelevance. Great Britain had once ruled the world through sheer force of will, and now the Empire of the Rising Sun would do likewise.

But of course, thought Hayabusa, as he leapt onto another rooftop, unseen by the panicking citizens in the streets below, smaller acts needed to be done to lend to total victory. In this city, bunkered down in the castle he had just seen, defended against conventional attacks with energy shields relayed by orbiting Athena satellites and conventional missile batteries, was an Allied commander, a Swede by the name of Linstrum, who had been identified as the only one with the competence and the will present in this part of Europe to slow down the Imperial advance. Hayabusa had already put many of the Emperor's enemies to the katana before, from rebels in Korea and China to dissidents on the Home Isles themselves. This gaijin's fate would be no different.

"_Atenção! Não se apavore!"_ he almost lost his balance as a voice began shouting out of a speaker placed on the roof he was running along, obviously reassuring the citizens just to panic. With that, he drew his katana, built as always in the traditional way, but out of metals such as tungsten and titanium, combining the new and the old to make it indestructible, as was the way of Japan these days. Deftly, he sliced the speaker into neat chunks with perfect economy of motion, as he had been trained in the dojos back home in the forests of Hokkaido. With that, he leapt over to the next roof, not even feeling strained. Being forced to endure the slopes of Fujisama had rendered him a perfect physical specimen, just like all the finest servants of the Emperor.

"Stay in your homes!" he paused as he was about to leap onto another roof, looking down into the side-street below. An Allied IFV was slowly moving along with speakers atop, with American-accented English blaring out. He readied one of his shuriken, lined with pure diamond, and sent it spinning with incredible speed into the cockpit of the vehicle, cutting right through the head of the driver. Perfect. No more blaring speeches to reassure them. As the Emperor, his wisdom eternal, had said, to break an enemy's spirit was a greater triumph than breaking his body. This was something the Shinobi of the Empire had embraced heartily.

He ducked beside a ventilation system on a roof, positioning himself to minimize his profile. Some Imperial scientists proposed fabrics with chameleonic properties, but what sort of coward resorted to such trickery? With that, he looked up as Allied Nighthawk helicopters passed overhead, heading towards the castle. Was this Linstrum meeting with more Allied commanders? More throats to be cut, then.

As the castle drew ever closer, he suddenly paused as he was about to leap over an alleyway, choosing to listen in to the radio chatter going on below, as Allied Portuguese soldiers, accompanied by Peacekeeper troops to keep the city in order, moved in on patrol below.

"…_we have strong evidence to suggest presence of a Jap shinobi assassin in the city. Exercise extreme caution, over."_

Curse it all, thought Hayabusa. He had done his utmost care to leave no trace of his presence, but evidently, probably through some technological trickery, they had found some. More reason for him not to let confidence overtake him too much he thought. In any case, he began to slowly descend along the wall, digging into it with his fingers, clutching to the shadows cast by the evening. He chose to listen to the conversation of the men below, as they chattered in English, presumably their only shared language.

"A fucking ninja? Imagine that." One of the Peacekeepers chuckled. "What's he going to do? Stick swords in our tank engines? Jam up our jets with throwing stars?"

"Fuck that, at least he'll give the dogs something to do." Laughed one of the soldiers.

"Anyway," continued the Peacekeeper, as Hayabusa continued to slowly descend, "I just can't imagine the Japs making it this far. They've been lucky enough as it is; there'll be Century bombers over Tokyo before you know it—in thirty minutes, even."

The men laughed as Hayabusa fixed a string onto a nearby fire escape, and dangled off it, hanging behind the Peacekeeper, allowing them to finish their chortling.

Without a word, he plunged his blade through the heart of the blue-uniformed fool, before detonating a smoke bomb from his belt in their midst. As they coughed and spluttered, he slit their throats one by one, before running up the wall and onto the roof, choosing not to waste time by admiring his latest divinely ordained kills. The more vermin that dared to stand in the way of His Divine Majesty that died, the better.

He could make out the distinctive noise of Imperial 'Black Eagle' _Kuroi Washi _jets, delegated to Korean pilots for their unpredictability, scream over the city, as Allied missile batteries launched volleys in their direction. The castle was looming up ahead, and he could already hear barking attack dogs patrolling its grounds. Those animals were the bane of his kind, for they could sniff him out even if he blended into his environment so effectively that a machine could not see him. Fortunately, the simplest of assassin's tactics would suffice here.

Producing another one of his shuriken as he crouched on a roof, he also took out a small vial of gunpowder mix and began to combine it with some ground-up metal, letting it stick onto the throwing star magnetically. Taking it up to his hand, he aimed at a truck approaching the castle gates and threw it. Striking the vehicle right on the front, the star exploded on contact, creating a fireball that engulfed the vehicle and sent the fools scurrying towards it like moths towards a flame. Smiling under his mask, he leapt off the slated roof he was standing on, scurried across a road and ran right up the stone wall of the castle, digging in with kunai held between his fingers.

Reaching the top of the wall, he avoided the beams of searchlights, digging the poison-laced kunai into the back of a hapless Allied sniper—SAS by the looks of it—who had paused to light a cigarette. Such lack of discipline was so typical of these inferior, disgusting barbarians. They relied so much on their guns and their fancy toys that it became so easy for them to fall prey to the ancient methods of killing one's enemy. With that, he headed towards his destination, the main keep.

More guards were dispatched by the simplest of tricks—firecrackers to distract them and herd them into the right place for their throats to be cut, raunchy magazines left on the floor to distract them…this felt more like a training simulation than an actual mission. These fools were soft, that much was obvious. Nevertheless, Hayabusa found himself scaling a wall, as shouts began to echo through the complex—not that it mattered now—and peered through a window, seeing Linstrum conferring with what looked like other Allied officials, political and military, around a map. He would have to kill them also, even if they were not to blame for their presence here.

Smashing open the window with but a punch, he leapt inside, detonating a smoke bomb before grabbing shuriken from his belt, letting them fly into the bodies of guards and slicing through the CPUs of sentry guns set up. Another one struck the lock of the nearby door, sealing it shut. Within moments, only LInstrum was left, staring at him in confusion. He was about to grab a gun from a holster, but Hayabusa, moving with the speed that only years of intensive training could provide, sliced his hand from his wrist. To the man's credit, he barely betrayed pain.

"Guess it's my time, huh?" he laughed. "Guess I underestimated you dirty Japs..."

"Your resistance to pain is admirable." Mused Hayabusa, as he readied his katana. Might as well grant the man a few extra moments. "You would no doubt have been an honorable opponent for our commanders."

"There is no honor in war." Laughed Linstrum. "You Japs have all these fancy toys that you pulled from your asse, but you're still stuck in the past with that kinda thinking."

"The Emperor says otherwise, and his word is divine." Snapped Hayabusa.

"Oh really?" chuckled Linstrum. "You fish-eaters are really fucked in the heads. And I'm to believe that?"

Like a blur, Hayabusa stepped forward and severed the man's head from his body, letting it bounce to the floor, his expression frozen with a smug smile. Footsteps were coming; time to go.

"Believe it." He snapped to the head, before leaping out of the window.


	23. Chapter XX: Kherson

_Excerpt from a report delivered to CIA headquarters in Langley, circa late February 1974:_

_From what we can gather from satellite intel and information relayed us by our new 'friends' in the KGB, it appears that the war in the Soviet Union is nearing a tipping point. Sabotage of rail lines and infrastructure by Soviet partisans has crippled Japanese advances in some areas, and Soviet forces are beginning to get accustomed to engaging Imperial mechanized forces. Nevertheless, we have deduced that Imperial forces are highly mobile and adaptive, and we are still at a loss as to how they have acquired intelligence on Soviet strategic locations that we previously struggled to obtain._

_More disturbingly, advance Imperial units have reached as far as the Ukraine. We expect that even with this 'nanotechnology' on their side, their supply lines must surely be absurdly overstretched by now. However, KGB intelligence also indicates that the Japanese are commencing field tests of experimental weapons systems in that area. We recommend further observation. _

Strapped into the cockpit of her MiG-1 fighter, pilot Oksana Chuikova checked her guidance systems as she and her squadron approached the city of Kherson, here in southern Ukraine. The 'Red Archangels', as they were known, even if some of the politruks complained about it having too much connotation to the bourgeoisie concept of religion, formed by the famed Soviet ace Lydia Litvyak back in the forties, where she had covered Stalin's divisions of Mammoth tanks into Europe from the cockpit of her Yak fighter. For weeks now, they had been engaging in constant clashes with Japanese air forces—although their planes had many advancements, Oksana had been disappointed that the Nipponese pilots did not offer the same challenge as Allied ones did.

But now, even with incoming news that the Krasna-45 facility had been retaken, disturbing reports had come in from the Odessa area, reporting of some new Japanese weapon. Oksana had marvelled at the ingenuity of these yellow bastards, wondering how these foreign monkeys had thought up such wondrous technology, but it was no matter. It felt far more satisfying to empty Matryoshka missiles and Gatling cannons into such things, if only to catch a glimpse of their innards before they blew up.

"_Incoming fighters, 11 o'clock._" Squadron leader Vasily spoke on the main channel. No chatter—through years of combat, they spoke only what was necessary.

"_Enemy variable fighters, it seems…_"

Tengu variable fighters—not much compared to Allied Apollo fighters, which were truly worthy combatants, but those Nipponese were not above employing all sorts of tricks. Oksana was not going to make the mistake of underestimating, as too many of her comrades had already did.

"_We have a lock…_"

She tensed as her long-range target acquisition system beeped, as the exhaust contrails of enemy fighters became visible up ahead. All she needed was permission to engage—too early, and they could give away their position, too late, and the enemy would have noticed them. She tried not to sweat as she gripped the throttle stick, with the simple but sufficient dials on the dashboard in front of her gradually moving as the squadron increased speed.

"_Engage._"

Rockets shot from under the wings of the MiGs, shooting forward towards the Japanese fighters far up ahead. Immediately, the Nipponese jets attempted evasive manoeuvres, popping off all sorts of bizarre countermeasures, some of which successfully sent some of the missiles spinning away. Nevertheless, she was able to curl her mouth into a smile as flashes lit up the sky ahead, confirming several missile hits. More kills for the Red Archangels.

"_Shto—enemy interceptors coming up from behind!_"

What? How had they done that? More technological trickery, no doubt. Probably playing hell with their sensors somehow. Nevertheless, with a deft adjustment of her engine intake and a jolt of the throttle stick, Oksana made her MiG spin on a dime, with the squadron following suit immediately afterwards, just as more enemy variable fighters and sleek interceptors shot out from a nearby cloud. Pressing down on the trigger, she felt her jet shake as its Gatling guns whirred into action, ripping through the flimsy armor of the enemy craft, sending two of them spiralling downwards. Swerving to one side to avoid enemy autocannon fire, she watched as Vasily shot off two more missiles, scoring another two kills. Clearly shitting their pants, the remainder of the enemy craft hit their afterburners and began making their escape, even as more Matryoshkas came after them.

"_Resume formation and course…"_

Continuing towards the city, the MiGs began to lower their height as they dipped through the clouds. She could see huge smokestacks rising already—what had those barbarians done now? At least the Allies were gracious enough to reserve such destruction only in times of desperation. As soon as they were expunged from the Motherland, she thought, their precious little islands would burn to a crisp, as would the rest of their cursed empire.

"_Archangel 2, confirm visual sighting of…unidentified weapons systems at 12 o'clock…"_

Recognizing her callsign, Oksana focused—there was definitely something large moving through the city center. One of those hulking mechanized walkers they used? No, this one was far larger.

"_Uh, confirmed sighting…_"

"_Move in, ground-targeting systems active…"_

She could see it more clearly now—a huge, tripedal walker that appeared to be wielding three immense glowing blades, tearing through the city around it and leaving destruction it its wake. Rising Sun emblems decorated some of its armor plates, and she could make out grotesque samurai-like visages moulded into its multiple heads. How could they have constructed such an abomination? Such a machine could not possibly exist! It simply couldn't be!

"_Engage at will._" Breathed Vasily.

Don't need to tell me twice, thought Oksana. Pressing down on the trigger, she let off two air-ground missiles targeted directly at this monstrosity, with the rest of the squadron following suit. The missiles crossed the space between them and the machine almost instantly, with the MiGs pulling up as each of the missiles scored a direct hit on the machine, engulfing it in fireballs.

"_Confirm target direction, Archangel 3._"

One of the MiGs pulled away, circling over where the machine had been, obscured for the smoke and the flames.

"_No visual contact yet…_"

A deep roaring, audible even at this height and through the MiG canopy, echoed from below, as the walker emerged from the smoke seemingly untouched, waving its swords as if in defiance. Oksana's heart sank—how could they stop that thing? They could unload untold amounts of munitions onto it, but at what cost?

"_Incoming enemy variable fighters_!"

She looked up as more enemy jets came screaming towards them at 9 o'clock, these ones apparently sporting strange drones orbiting around each one. What was this now? She was losing patience with the nonsense that these people were throwing at her with each encounter.

"_Squadron, disperse and engage at will!_"

Banking sharply, Oksana locked onto one of the fighters as it began spraying with its autocannon, firing off a missile that streaked across the sky towards it, only for the drone to use itself as a shield. An explosion flared as the missile struck the drone, leaving the fighter merely shaken. Scowling, Oksana let rip with her Gatling weapons, grinning in satisfaction as explosive rounds tore through the fighter and sent it plummeting down below.

"_Fall back, Archangels…_" Vasily called, as she glimpsed artillery and rockets pounding the huge walker below, again to no discernable effect. "_This is not our place."_

How odd for him to say something that was not an order or a confirmation, thought Oksana, as she hit the afterburners. Still, in such dark days for the Union, it was only natural. She wondered what the people at the science ministry would make of this, as she left the burning city of Kherson behind.


	24. Chapter XXI: Honolulu

_Notice issued to the inhabitants of the Imperial Dominion of Hawaii. February 1974:_

_Subjects of His Imperial Majesty's divine rule! It has come to the attention of our benevolent Divine leader that the treacherous American barbarians intend to launch an attack on the islands of Hawaii, driving out the Imperial rule under which you have all prospered and replacing it with their own corrupt 'democracy'. Now, you shall express your gratitude to the Empire of the Rising Sun for uplifting you above your poor neglected cousins in the West, and aid our brave and honorable forces in repelling this most cowardly attack! What kind of nation attempts a strike on another's port while it is not yet prepared?_

_Under the Emperor's unparalleled leadership and our divinely-inspired technology, we need only your support to guarantee victory! Show the barbarian vermin in Washington that you reject their lies and corruption! Show the world that nothing will stop the expansion of Japan's benevolent Co-Prosperity Sphere across the entire globe!_

_Long live his Divine Majesty!_

"Well, donchya know, Hawaii looks even prettier than I imagined. You fight hard down there, boys, 'cause all them pretty beach girls will be waitin' for you when y'all are finished kickin' Nippy all the way back to Tokyo!"

In the interior of a Century bomber, US Navy SEAL Bruce Burton zipped up his wetsuit as he awaited the signal to drop. Through the windows of the aircraft, he could see wings of other bombers and Allied aircraft bearing down towards the Hawaiian archipelago, with the full might of the US Pacific fleet spread out below, back up with support from the Canadian Forces Maritime Command and the Royal Australian Navy. They were going to pay the Nips back for 1941, striking fast and hard into the heart of their Pacific forces and opening the door to Honshu wide open. Everything was going to be concentrated on their main naval base in Pearl Harbor, which hopefully wouldn't be suspecting at thing.

"Alright, Burton ol' buddy, you know what to do!" His sergeant shouted to him over the roaring wind as the back doors were opened. "Nippy's gonna have AA batteries in Honolulu, you find and blow 'em sky high! Got any questions?"

"Yeah—how do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?" grinned Burton, pointing at his wetsuit. With that, he turned around and leapt out of the bomber, with all of Oahu's majestic glory spread out beneath him. The sky was cloudless, providing a spectacular view, and he could make out Allied aircraft carriers and cruisers already launching strikes on Jap emplacements Molokai. Just like a postcard, he thought smugly.

As he pulled his parachute cord, he suddenly noticed the aircraft wings above spitting countermeasures as volleys of Japanese missiles came streaking up towards them—rather more than briefing had made there out to be. He winced as one of the Artemis bombers was ripped apart by several direct hits from the Japanese missiles, which left pretty little blue contrails in their wake. Looking down as the flaming hull of the plane span down to the dark blue waters of the Pacific below, he prepared to hit the waves just off Honolulu, as the briefing had told him. Several other SEALs had been arranged to meet with him, but given the amount of warheads the Nips were putting in the air, he wasn't sure they'd make it. Not that it mattered anyway—more for him.

"_This is Charlie-Bravo to Mako One!" _His radio crackled as the ocean loomed up below him. "_Imperial defences greater than expected! Abort mission! Repeat, abort!"_

"Fuck off." Snorted Burton, before deactivating his radio.

He hit the water a few moments later, shedding his parachute and taking a moment to get his bearings. Even in this wetsuit, supposedly designed to keep him as warm as possible, he could still feel the cold of the ocean around him, but nonetheless kept his head down as he began swimming towards the shore, as the skies above were filled with Allied aircraft initiating evasive manoeuvres and the bursts of Japanese missiles. Looking around in the clear water around him, he managed to spot the occasional rusted shipwreck lying on the seabed below, including what he recognized as gunboats that must have been hit back when the Japs seized Hawaii in December '41, back than that spineless bastard FDR had handed the Pacific to them on a platter. Well, today they were going to make up for that.

For a moment his heart leapt as a burning Allied Vindicator spiralled out of the sky above and impacted into the water about thirty meters away, as the disturbed water nearly threw him off course. Nevertheless, he carried on as the coast drew ever closer, glimpsing strange Japanese fishing nets lying on the seabed below, presumably using some kind of fancy gadgetry to attract fish. He wondered what sort of looks would appear on their faces when Century bombers hit Tokyo and pounded all that fancy technological crap of theirs into scrap metal.

Finally, he burst out of the water, finding himself underneath a dock by what looked like downtown Honolulu—although it looked hardly anything like the pictures most people had of it. Glass buildings emblazed with Japanese script and corporate imagery rose above crumbling old pre-1940s structures, where he presumed the Nips had shoved their 'grateful colonial subjects' in to make way for the 'new Hawaii generation' or whatever. Swimming up to the end of the dock, he grabbed onto the edge and clambered out, looking around to make sure the coast was clear, and then moved over behind a container. Zipping open his wetsuit, he emerged out in his lightweight combat garb, producing a specialized submachinegun out of a watertight holster. With that, he moved towards the exit of the docks as fast as he could, sticking to the shadows—even if that was difficult in the bright Pacific sun.

As air raid sirens blared around the city while he moved through a nearby street, ducking behind the cars parked along the sidewalk—weird, sleek Japanese models naturally—he noted a group of what he guessed to be local militia ahead, dressed in more lightweight versions of the weird samurai getup that Nip infantrymen dressed up in. He glimpsed a few Caucasian and African-American faces, thinking grimly how long the Japs had to brainwash the populace here. Nevertheless, he was going to give them a chance.

"Hey!" he called out, emerging from cover. "Look, if you can understand me…"

"Barbarian!" one of them shouted, turning a weapon towards him. Yep, though Burton grimly. Brainwashed up the ass.

Removing the safety on his gun, he leapt across the street, raking as he went. Specialized armor-piercing rounds cut through the lightweight armor of the militiamen, downing them in less than a moment. Ducking behind the cover of a truck again, Burton glimpsed several Japanese tanks rumble through an intersection ahead, remembering that several parachute divisions were to be dropped into Honolulu above. Reassured by the fact that the Nip garrison was going to have its hands full, he continued moving fast, as years of training in Alaska and Canada had made him, past strange billboards advertising weird comics involving bug-eyed cartoon girls and squids. Very odd.

"Attention!"

He stopped as he reached a corner, reloading his gun as he peered around it. A Japanese officer was addressing some troops and more militia in a street, with a two-legged walker with what seemed like helicopter rotors folded behind it and a missile launcher under its cockpit module standing behind them—oh yeah, that was one of those transforming helicopters he had heard about.

"American barbarian airborne forces have landed in Kakaako district!" the officer was saying in a heavy accent. "We will go there and exterminate them!"

"But what about Pearl Harbor?" one of the militiamen asked.

"Their aircraft will not get near it! And naval reinforcements are already underway, under the command of Prince Tatsu himself! The Allied fools have blundered into a trap!"

Holding his breath, Burton leapt from behind the corner and opened fire with his gun, mowing into the soldiers there. As the officer prepared to draw his sword, Burton knocked him to the ground with a kick, blasting his head open with the remainder of his magazine. As the strange walker made a whirring sound, with the pilot apparently hammering the same button, Burton produced a C4 charge from his belt almost instantaneously and threw it against the machine, with the explosive sticking on immediately. Jumping back, he pressed down on the detonator, blowing apart the mech and scattering flaming debris across the street.

"Groovy." He grinned.

Scooping up one of the weird carbines the Japanese grunts were equipped with, he noticed missiles streaking into the sky from behind several nearby buildings. Calculating its location, he began running in that direction again, not even feeling the strain on the body all this physical activity was causing him. Jap jets streaked overhead, spraying bullets, as he heard the distinctive booming of Japanese battleship guns coming from the ocean. Shit, it really was all going to hell. Still, that wasn't going to stop him from blowing the living crap out of everything he could.

Rounding a corner, he found himself facing a Japanese tsunami tank rumbling straight towards him, sporting various charms and calligraphy on its sleek hull. Running forwards, he jumped straight onto the front of the tank, hopping onto the turret and shooting open the hatch, dropping another C4 charge with total economy of movement—it wasn't as if the Pentagon ever skimped out. Leaping off the tank, he sprayed more rounds into several infantrymen accompanying the tank as the vehicle exploded from within—so much for all those fancy charms, he thought.

"_Banzaaaiiiii!"_

He span around to see a Japanese soldier charging him with a long glowing sword, screaming like a madman. Grabbing a knife from his waist so fast it almost seemed to appear in his hand, he leapt back and threw it straight into the Jap's neck, causing him to collapse to the ground.

"Stick around." He chuckled, running over and retrieving the knife. He wasn't far off now. As he continued running, he looked around, noticing that the Jap propaganda really wasn't that far off; the buildings were tall and pristine, with the streets clean and almost devoid of litter. Sleek, hi-tech looking cars were parked along the sidewalks, and even though the streets were deserted, the local economy didn't seem to be doing half bad, from the looks of it. Nevertheless, on the hills around Honolulu, he could just about make out old, crumbling slums, with the Nips evidently making sure that they didn't spoil the jewel of their 'co-prosperity' sphere.

Turning around, he found himself looking at a battery of a few Japanese VX missile launchers pointed up at the sky, spewing blossoms of missiles. It all seemed rather incongruous with the palm trees and the colorful billboards around, but hey, at least it would look good blowing up.

Ducking behind a 'Toyota', he quickly evaluated the enemy soldiers there—about a dozen, including a hovering robotic dragonfly that appeared to be…flying right towards him…and twittering wildly…

"_Banzai!"_

"Aw, fuck it." Sighed Burton. Leaping out of cover, he opened fire at the Jap infantrymen before they could even raise their rifles, mowing down a quarter of them as the rest dived for cover. Tossing aside his submachinegun, he ran forward firing wildly, with the rounds cutting through the sandbags they were trying to hide behind. Producing one more C4 charge, he threw it pitcher-style towards the munitions supplies at the feet of the V X turrets—the resulting blast knocked him onto his feet, throwing the remaining infantry out of cover like ragdolls.

"Now ain't that a beautiful sight." He smiled to himself, as he picked himself up. He became suddenly aware of movement behind him, and he span around to see a hulking, muscular Japanese soldier reaching towards him—just like one of their sumo wrestlers, but seemingly pumped with steroids.

"American wimp." The huge sumo growled, picking him up and throwing him against some cars, setting off their alarms. Reaching for his knife, Burton threw it towards the bastard as he walked towards him, only for it too harmlessly bounce off his body armor. Smirking, the brute drew a blade, as Burton evaluated what he had remaining in his inventory. Ah, yes.

"Hey, Jappy boy! Go home and be a family man!" he shouted, as he produced his C4 detonator and threw it at the brute's feet, causing him to look down in momentary confusion. In that moment, he leapt towards his gun and scooped it up, slamming a new mag in and opening fire towards his head, downing him a moment later.

Looking up, he could see that the skies were being rapidly cleared of Allied aircraft, and smokestacks were drifting into the sky from the direction of the ocean—and he wasn't hearing any lull in the sounds of Japanese naval guns. The whole thing had gone FUBAR, he thought grimly, and it appeared that the Japs had somehow been ready for them. Still, the war wasn't over, not by a long shot, and the Allied Nations still had plenty of fight in them, yes siree. Now, the priority was getting out of Honolulu and meeting up with friendlies asap—if he didn't meet some cute Hawaiian girls first…


	25. Interlude: Gibraltar Rock

"Preparing to commence insertion."

"_Copy that. Good luck, comrade."_

"_Spasibo. _Although I will doubtlessly need more patience than luck…"

Natasha Volkova, poster child of the Red Army, ignored the cold of the water around her as she came up towards the shore of Gibraltar Rock—it was hot borscht compared to the rivers of Siberia. In the sunny blue skies above, missile contrails no doubt leftover from Allied flyovers in this vicinity that had gone awry were still visible, and the wrecks of their warships at the bottom below her. Under usual circumstances, the thought of the fascist dogs taking such losses would have pleased her, but that sort of thing was not appropriate now.

No, even though, as a true heroine of the Soviet Union, she had devoted her being to the elimination of all who would oppose the Worker's Revolution, she recognized that the Nipponese swarms that were seemingly assailing everyone at the same time with great success needed to be stopped by any means necessary before they could topple the Union. She was amazed at how far they had got, and that they were poised to take on Western Europe from here, recently seized Gibraltar—she wouldn't be surprised if the generals in the Kremlin envied them for such success. Alas, their good fortune would have to end here.

Her objective was simple: see to the destruction of Japanese air assets positioned at an Allied airbase that they had taken over on the Rock. That would allow a combined taskforce to move in on the area. Working with capitalists—the irony would have made her laugh, something she had not done in years. But what really worried her was the information that she would teamed up with the premier Allied special forces operative, someone whom she had been eager to scalp for a long while now. Had they been deliberately trying to test her reaction? Was this some bizarre test of loyalty?

Noticing the figure clambering onto the docks in front of her, evidently not.

"Move it, honey! Let's get this party started!"

Natasha tried to keep her thoughts on the task at hand as he got out onto the shore, slipping out of her skintight wetsuit and readying her 20mm Dragunov sniper rifle, outfitted with titanium-tipped caseless rounds. Enough to punch through light vehicle armor. This Allied slut in front of her, apparently bold enough to go running around in tight shorts and a top, appeared content to wield a pair of pistols and various explosives on her belt. But there surely had to be a reason why the Allied command saw fit to throw Tanya Adams into the most dangerous of situations.

"Proceed. We will not engage unless necessary. Keep radio silence." Breathed Natasha, as he looked around for enemy troops. Tanya responded by snapping something that her English skills were not quite able to process—and she was thankful for that.

Moving out of the docks, which were littered with ash-rimmed craters from the initial Japanese strikes, the two commandos headed out onto the streets, with buildings boarded up or reduced to burnt-out husks. Using her scope, Natasha could make out something large moving on the peak overlooking this urban area—one of the enemy 'Oni' mechanized walkers, it seemed. Tough enough even to take on Soviet armor. If there was one thing she could admire these Nipponese for, it was their engineering.

"Hey…wait!"

Moving out from behind the cover of a parked vehicle, she moved after Adams, who seemed more fit to run forward at impressive speed, as if she had no need of lungs. Of course, her own training in the freezing Urals had not exactly been meaningless, so she followed after her, vaulting over abandoned vehicles, some of which were peppered with bullet holes. Allied recruitment posters on the walls had been either torn down or plastered over with images of the infernal Japanese Emperor, looking down on the world as if he owned it already.

Rounding a corner, she paused as several enemy infantrymen presented themselves ahead, turning and aiming their guns. It took her less than a second to bring her rifle up to the right position and fire, sending a silenced round at thousands of feet per second straight through the bodies of two of the troops, sucking nearly all of their internal organs out of their bodies. Not exactly clean, but it was precise.

"Y'all goin' dirt-tastin'!"

Natasha turned as Adams suddenly leapt into the midst of the squad from the roof of a parked van, opening fire wildly with their twin pistols. The entire group of enemy infantry dropped to the ground a moment later, fluid leaking for her heads, as she continued to run forward, laughing like some sort of demented lunatic. Impressive, thought Natasha. Foolhardy, but most impressive.

Shouts were coming from nearby streets as the two moved forward quickly. Breathing techniques that had been burnt into her since basic Spetsnaz training made her able to catch up with the Allied commando in moments. With that, they turned into another road, with more enemy soldiers running towards them, clearly agitated. Calculating trajectories in less than a second, Natasha fired off a round at a nearby parked car. Ricocheting cleanly, the bullet bounced off another vehicle and straight through the first line of troops, piercing their body armor as if it wasn't there.

"Set 'em up and I'll knock 'em down!" Adams laughed as she opened fire, letting off rapid burst with her pistols that finished off the next line, before reloading them so fast that her hands became blurs. Natasha span around as another enemy soldier came screaming from an alleyway brandishing a red-hot blade, only for Adams to deliver a kick to his body in a blur. Blood spurted from his mouth as his ribcage audibly cracked, moments before he was sent slamming against a wall.

Moving over the bodies of the Japanese soldiers, Natasha proceeded forward as Adams bounded across the rooftops of parked cars. She could make out the faint rumbling of enemy armored vehicles not far from here—although she had dispatched of enough Allied vehicles in the past not to fret too much. No, it was the enemy troops moving into a building ahead that worried her. As the first rounds of suppressive fire began to spit out from the windows, she dived behind a parked car and decided that she might as well break radio silence.

"Requesting aerial strike on marked target…"

"_Copy, comrade, although it may be difficult for…_"

She watched in bemusement as Adams charged forward, zig-zagging quickly across the street like a blur before producing an explosive from her belt.

"SANTA'S COMIN' TO TOWN!"

Lobbing the batch straight through the open door, she flipped backwards as it detonated violently, causing most of the structure to crumble inwards. An enemy soldier leapt out of a window, hitting the ground at the cost of breaking his ankles—Natasha was already running through the cloud of dust, finishing him off with a quick slice of her combat knife. Adams appeared to be enjoying this a bit too much for her own comfort.

"The objective is not far." She snapped, catching with Tanya as they continued running through the streets. Satellite reconnaissance provided by the Allies had highlighted the best routes to take; she never thought she'd see the day that she'd be grateful for the CIA.

"Hold on…"

Turning into another lane, with the control tower of the airbase just about visible, she stopped as they found an enemy light tank moving forward, supported by infantry. Rolling to the side as the tank fired, pulverizing a parked car, she aimed for the front of the sleek white vehicle and fired. The round shot forward, piercing through the viewport and through the face of the driver, causing the vehicle to ground to a halt. As suppressive fire came towards her, she produced a knife and threw it, sending it flying straight through the face of an enemy soldier. He stumbled back into the man behind him, confusing the squad for a moment.

"SIT DOWN!"

Launching herself off another car, Tanya opened fire in multiple directions in quick succession, sending bullets straight through the throats of the remaining troops. Bounding onto the roof of the tank, she kicked open the hatch and dropped a grenade inside, leaping off as it detonated within before running forwards, with Natasha following. The airbase entrance was just about visible—she was able to pause and pick off several infantrymen there rapidly within the space of a few seconds, taking a moment to reload and follow.

Reaching the entrance, she noted rows of enemy fighters parked along the various runways, as alarms began to blare. She noted highly volatile fuel tanks nearby some of the jets, and as such swapped her current magazine for high-explosive rounds. She didn't even have to look through her scope for such targets—she pulled the trigger and watched as the tanks detonated, starting a chain reaction that detonated those fighters one by one. Such came from trying to use a base not designed for your craft, she thought.

High-velocity rounds came towards her moments later, forcing her to duck—where was Adams? Trying to throw herself towards the enemy rifles, no doubt. Looking around, she could see that blonde-haired American running towards the next fuel tanks, firing at the advancing enemy guards and readying another C4 charge with her other hand.

"Yo, Nippy_**! I got a present for ya**_!"

She threw the charge and jumped back as it detonated, with similar results. Tanya watched as conflagration and fire began to spread throughout the rest of the base, sending the Japanese there into a scurrying panic. Now, the taskforce that lay off the Pillars of Hercules could advance without fear. With that in mind, she turned as Adams threw off one more parting word to the enemy.

"_**AND THAT WAS LEFT-HANDED!**_"


	26. Chapter XXII: North Sea

_Delivered to CIA headquarters in Langley, March 17__th__ 1974:_

_With the contents of this message come priority intelligence retrieved from the computer systems of the sunken Japanese Shogun-class battleship _Nagasaki _about two hours ago, courtesy of an Allied naval salvage team. This will also be forwarded to Allied Intelligence Center in Vauxhall, __and to KGB headquarters in Moscow, with any elements deemed inappropriate for our Soviet friends removed in that case. _

_We have determined that due to the poor weather conditions in the North Sea, the Japanese mobile naval fortress there is relying on specialized radar vessels in the vicinity of the Dogger Bank. Our analysts have determined that elimination of those will negate its long-ranged weapon capabilities. Special Agent Tanya, Soviet commando Volkova, and MI6 field operatives have been selected for this task and should be executing it by the time this message is forwarded. Once that is done, it is imperative that Operation Barracuda commence immediately—our European stations believe that the platform is more than capable of launching vanguard invasion forces into north-western Europe. Should the operation fail, we calculate three weeks at most before a total loss of naval power projection in the European theater. _

_High casualties should be expected. Nevertheless, the success of this operation should at a minimum greatly cripple the Japanese European offensive. Anything less than 45% taskforce losses is tolerable. _

"So, uh, Timmy. Looks like this is it. Got anything to say before we get in there?"

"Yeah—Wac-Man is better than Monkey Kong and you know it."

In retrospect, perhaps screwing around back at the university with Atari games would've been a better career choice than joining the Allied Military Engineer Corps—that was the main thought in Harry Allison's head as he sat trembling in the interior of a Century transport bomber over the North Sea, trying not to chatter as the aircraft shook and juddered in time with muffled bangs from outside. Operation Barracuda had begun, to finally turn the tide of the crisis in Europe. Damn near the entirety of the Allied Combined Navy's remaining reserves around the continent were being put down on the table here—and even with the Soviet s sending in support from the Baltic, the odds were still daunting. Through one of the small windows behind his shoulder, other wings of Allied aircraft were bearing down over the expanses of fog hanging over the sea, spitting countermeasures as enemy SAMs came streaking seemingly out of nowhere. Allison couldn't deny that he felt like shitting his pants, to put it simply.

Next to him, fellow engineer Timothy Weber seemed slightly more composed as he checked his tools, sorting them into the pouches on his vest of lightweight body armor. Around them, special forces soldiers from Britain, Canada, Norway, and of course the good ol' USA sat in silence, some of them hiding their faces with masks or scarves—assigned to accompany the engineers in their mission to drop directly onto the Japanese floating fortress and sabotage its fusion cores to destroy it. Weber and Allison had been selected because of their computer skill and the fact that they had survived a number of intense combat situations already—although Allison wished that they'd grasped that they had only done so by hiding behind large solid objects until their ears stopped ringing from the gunfire.

"Holy shit!" he heard someone shout from the cockpit. "I see the thing! It's fucking huge! How did those crazy bastards build it?"

"Mined out whole parts of China and Korea, I heard." Muttered Weber. "Used the locals as 'involuntary contributors to the expansion of the glorious Asian co-prosperity sphere', or some baloney like that."

Taking a glimpse out of the window, Allison glimpsed something metallic and immense rising out of the fog down below, as flashes from what he presumed were naval forces clashing flared around it—before he noticed the accompanying aircraft peeling away. This is it, he thought. His only real weapon was an old service pistol that kept jamming and his only real training for it was five minutes at a range. And he was going to have to quickly get to grips with technology he barely knew anything about. What he would give just to be back home in Dallas with a bag of quarters for the arcade.

"Prepare to drop!" Another shout came from the cockpit as the aircraft was shaken violently—as he readied his parachute, Allison could also hear the sound of an alarm coming from up there.

"We just lost the starboard engine…"

"So, how you feelin' about this, geek?" A SEAL commando growled at him as everyone steeled themselves for the drop. "You could be the one to turn the tide of all this. Do your voodoo good, or so help me I'll rip out your balls myself in hell."

"Yes, yes, I understand." Said Allison quickly. Damn it, he didn't need all that pressure along with the fear of hundreds of bloodthirsty Japs down there hellbent on spilling his guts.

"_Go! Go! Go! Godspeed, boys!"_

The back doors opened, and Allison did his best to recall his parachute crash course as he launched himself out. He briefly looked over his shoulder, seeing that all but one of the bomber's engines were ablaze—he turned away as it finally went spiraling out of control downwards. Pulling the cord, he felt a violent pain in his shoulders as the parachute billowed over him. Looking down, he could see the immense metallic shape of the Japanese fortress beneath him—Sky Knight drones were striking at its outer defenses as the Allied and Soviet naval taskforces commenced their attacks. He could make out the flashes of Japanese railguns, and the resulting explosions as they hit their targets—he didn't want to think about all those poor souls drowning in the freezing dark waters down there.

"That's the target! Standby for pepper!"

He could make out the target beneath them—a large dome-like structure on the fortress's surface that represented the fusion core control, from what intel could gather. Of course, for all he knew, it was where they fuckin' kept sushi, so he hoped that for once the desk-pushers were right.

"They've spotted us!"

His head turned sharply as one of the commandos parachuting near to him was violently skewered by superheated rounds coming from below, his limp body continuing to drift downwards—they were drawing closer to the deck, and he could make out Japanese seamen and soldiers below firing upwards. Had he been in the nice confines of a technician's workshop, he would've been mighty happy to get his hands on one of those guns they used—otherwise, all he could do was try his best to control his bowels as blue-hot rounds shot past him, holing his parachute.

"Fire in the hole!"

The other commandos produced grenades and dropped them downwards, sending the enemies below flying as they detonated on hitting the deck, or otherwise riddling their bodies with shrapnel. Allison braced himself as the metal deck loomed rapidly up to him—moments later, his feet made contact. There was a brief surge of pain in his ankles as he stumbled, before ducking as something exploded on the nearby edge of the platform—it looked like the missile batteries, with their seemingly inexhaustible amounts of warheads, were being prioritized as targets.

"Alright, we're in, bro." He turned as Weber landed nearby, detaching his parachute from his back. The last of the commandos were also landing, quickly checking their surroundings.

"That was just the fuckin' easy part." Allison muttered.

"You still scared?"

"About to shit my fuckin' pants."

"So am I. You just gotta try not to show it."

"Alright then!" one of the British specops men barked, as they began heading in the direction of the fusion core. "Priority is covering the techs as they do their job. We'll have to pray that the thousand-odd Nips aboard here are busy elsewhere. Move it, lads!"

Wheezing and huffing, Allison tried his best to keep up with the burly commandos as they quickly made their way down a ramp towards the structure, gunning down a couple of seamen on guard. Moving up, Allison quickly noted what appeared to be a terminal of some kind built into the side of the thing—just what he needed. Either the Japs really wanted to make things convenient for their own engineers, or they really didn't expect anyone to board this monstrosity.

"Make it quick!" one of the commandos barked as Allison placed his hands on the terminal controls. He remembered the quick classes he had taken in Japanese script—he had been confident that the old adage of binary being the universal language would remain in place here, but…

"Yeah, yeah, you try this if you're so clever, jarhead." He muttered under his breath as Weber began preparing his tools.

"Get the panel over there open. We may have to physically overwire this stuff if the code's too dense." Panted Timothy as he began typing, viewing what he presumed were status diagrams of the core. Shit—this was bordering on being gibberish as far as he was concerned.

"You got it?" Weber asked as he complied, exposing clusters of wires in a matter of seconds.

"Damn Japs seem to have been coding their stuff in Klingon." Allison breathed as he worked. "Still, yeah, I can work this…I can work this…it's just like a game of Meteors…you just gotta have a clear head."

Someone shouted, before gunfire rang out—goodbye to that, he thought, as he tried to get through the screens of code. Behind him, the commandos opened fire as more seamen and troops came rushing in with banzai calls, gunning down one of the SEALs. Allison tried to ignore all that behind him—this wasn't like a regular battlefield engineering job, things like securing fuel extraction facilities and then having to sit in there for hours on end for reasons God knew. Still, as he began to get to grips with the software, he felt that he could do this—it wasn't as hard as it looked. Code was code.

"Tankbusters! Watch out!"

Another one of the specops troops screamed as one Japanese soldier with wide-brimmed headgear came charging in with the next wave, wielding a bulky heavy-duty weapon of some kind—aiming it, he fired a pulsing beam of plasma, striking the commando and burning the layers of flesh off his body. The soldier was cut down a moment later, but from the corpses and spent shells on the floor, it seemed clear that the commando squad was dwindling.

"Hurry the fuck up, you damn geeks! We're getting shot up here!"

"Working on it!" said Weber through gritted teeth. Finally, he found an execute command, and activated it, ignoring the flashing warning boxes. There—now all they had to do was get the fuck outta here.

"Alright! It's done! Let's go!" he barked, turning around and sticking behind the squad. He tried not to throw up at the smell of the smoldering bodies on the deck—he had seen worse on the news, he reassured himself.

"Nighthawk incoming to pick us up!" one of the men shouted as they headed towards the edge of the platform. The outer defenses appeared to have been eliminated, and the Japanese naval ships that he could see were pulling back as alarm klaxons blared.

"What do you think the Japs are gonna say?" said Weber as a Nighthawk transport came in on approach.

"I don't know, but they're gonna be real cheesed off. They're really gonna want to hit us where it hurts…"


	27. Chapter XXIII: Bali

_Excerpt from manual delivered to Australian soldiers circa mid-March 1974, during Operation Southern Rise:_

_WHAT TO DO IF CAPTURED BY THE NIPS:_

_Remember to hide any food, water, cigarettes, in any place you can—in your pants, up your arse, or in your socks. This is very vital, as the Japs consider feeding and taking care of prisoners a strange concept. _

_Try disassembling small weapons like pistols and hiding them among your mates. It's worth a try. _

_Learn at least a few words of Japanese. At the very least the names of types of sushi. _

_Do not talk back to their officers, unless you enjoy a katana cutting off your balls. _

_Make sure there are no metal dragonflies looking at you if you try to escaped. _

_Despite what some might say, you are not buggered if they capture you. You are only semi-buggered. _

_Do not try and commit suicide. The Nips will have to take soldiers off the frontline to stand guard, and that's always a good thing!_

Sergeant Richardson of the Australian army considered himself well and truly buggered, as he sat slumped in fly-ridden filth with his mates rotting beside him. Oh sure, he was still alive, but frankly, given his situation, he didn't consider that much consolation.

Despite the near-destruction of Darwin by the Japs, Allied command, buoyed by some success in Europe, had decided to strike right at their empire in South-East Asia from Australia. Fresh forces from South Africa and India were brought in, and despite their setbacks, the boys of the Aussie army were more than enthusiastic to finally get back at the bastards. Richardson was among them—in fact, he had been one of the first to volunteer for a strike into Java, core of Imperial operations in Indonesia. With the help of South African and Indian naval elements, they would storm their coastal defences and establish beachheads. Stuck between their offensives into Russia and Europe and this incursion, the Japs would surely be overstretched and would crumble.

Were it so simple. Crammed into a Century bomber, Richardson and his men, along with a few South African commandoes, were supposed to have hit an enemy outpost near the south of the island, which would've also allowed hits on Bali. Enemy defences, however, were stronger than anticipated—seemed like the Japs had a real quick and effective method of building things. As Allied naval forces struggled with roving packs of enemy mini-subs, the bomber had been struck by an enemy SAM, and was forced to come down near Denpasar. Several of his men had died in the crash, and the rest had been too wounded and shaken when Japanese warriors showed up, declaring them to be 'prisoners of the Empire of the Rising Sun'

Well, bugger.

His memory of what had happened next was hazy, but they had taken him and the survivors into the rainforests of Bali, into a POW camp where everyone else who had the bad luck of being captured during the operation around here was being crammed into. The simple bamboo huts that the prisoners were shoved into contrasted highly against the sleek white walls, guard towers, and the quarters of the Japs themselves, draped with their Rising Sun banners. Above them, dragonrfly-shaped drones hung near constantly, watching, observing.

They had been lined up in the middle of the camp, stripped down to vests and trousers, forced to stand perfectly still even as mosquitoes bit them in the bollocks, while an Imperial officer addressed them. Even before he started speaking, Richardson just wanted to punch the drongo.

"True warriors never allow themselves to be captured by their adversary!" he had declared. "You cowards, who consider yourselves soldiers, think that we will grant those without honor respect? You have made yourselves enemies of our divine majesty, and hence you will suffer."

Well, at least he didn't beat around the bush, Richardson had thought. Over the next few days, which felt like an eternity, they had been forced to undergo torturous exercise in the camp, felling trees in the rainforest—those damn drones kept an eye on anyone trying to escape—while the Japanese guards brutalized anyone who spoke back or collapsed onto the ground. Richardson couldn't blame them, really. They had been indoctrinated for decades that being taken prisoner meant you were up shit creek for life.

On the fifth or sixth day, it was hard to tell, the voice of that officer had rang out across the camp in the early morning—guards came into the huts with electrified batons to make sure nobody snoozed over it.

"_Attention, Allied prisoners! Notice I do not say "Allied soldiers". From the moment you surrendered, you ceased to be soldiers!"_

"Yeah, yeah, lay it on, you bastard." Richardson had muttered.

"_Despite your shame, we have judged you worthy to partake in scientific experiments that will advance the collective knowledge of Asia. Those who have proved unable to distinguish themselves in physical work will be selected above others."_

Richardson had shuddered. He had heard about the Japanese 'projects to advance the quality of Asian science'; things like the shadowy Unit 731 that the men had whispered about, which had experimented with biological warfare in China, and now, they had heard, it had moved on to far stranger and more sinister projects…

"Fokkin' hell!" A South African soldier by the name of Werve had exclaimed when the guards began rounding up the weaker and more malnourished prisoner. "What the fok are they gonna do with those guys?"

"Just be bloody grateful that we ain't with them." Richardson had muttered as they watched from within the hut.

With the morning sun still barely creeping over the horizon, they had watched as an Imperial hovercraft transport entered the camp. Several men in white coats, some of them sporting strange eyepieces or carrying odd scientific equipment, exited the vehicle and inspected the lined-up prisoners. Once their gear was set up, they brought out three…_schoolgirls? _Richardson doubletaked when he saw that. Were the Japs organizing school trips here or something?

"_Fokkende…_" Werve had exclaimed. "Look at those fokking little bitches, man…something ain't right about them…"

Richardson saw his point. These things didn't act or walk like ordinary little girls. Even the scientists seemed afraid of them. Although he couldn't quite tell from this distance, he wasn't even sure if they had actual irises.

Moments later, some of the men lined up began to collapse quivering to the ground for no reason, blood coming from every orifice. Even Werve didn't have enough expletives to express his disbelief. Richardson could only stand aghast as one of the other prisoners suddenly rose about twenty feet into the air, gripped by some sort of blue light, screaming and struggling—before dropping down with a painful crunch. His body remained motionless as guards quickly moved it out of the way.

Minutes passed as the others were dispatched in similar ways, with those bloody little girls displaying no emotion even as the men lay broken at their feet. Eventually, the scientists, also looked completely freaked out of their minds, ushered them back aboard the transport and left. For the rest of the day, even the guards seemed paled and quiet—allowing the prisoners some respite, which would've been good if they had been in any mood to talk.

"So what the hell was all that?" one of Richardson's men finally exclaimed later that evening, as they sat down to deal out the rations of moldy rice they had received. "Were those girls even human?"

"I don't fokkin' know, man…" Werve had sighed. "I heard that the Japs did experiments with people up in northern China, but nothing like this…"

"Yeah. Come back Cherdenko, all is bloody forgiven." Richardson had sighed, finding his hands shaking as he shoveled rice into his mouth.

"Think they'll come back?"

"Nah. There's gotta be other prison camps for them to try out their shit on…"

At least, he hoped so. Whatever the case, he just didn't want to see those little freaks again…

The next day went as 'normal'. They were forced to do push-ups in the center of the camp for twenty straight minutes while the camp commandant read out quotations from their Emperor Yoshiro about honor and bushido or some crap. Richardson was more focused on trying to resist the obvious malnutrition coming over him—his muscle definition was fading, being replaced with clearly visible ribs under his skin. The rate he was going, he didn't know how many more weeks had would survive.

At least not all of the guards seemed like monsters—a few were happy to get close to the prisoners when the officer wasn't looking, showing them fancy Japanese gadgets, from little things were you played 'dating games ', with bug-eyed cartoon girls to music players, with quite a few tracks being pop ditties sung out by squeaky-voiced fifteen year olds, as far as he could tell. From what the guys who could speak Japanese among the prisoners could tell him, most of them were either praising their Emperor or singing the praises of conquest, and similar nonsense.

That night, as he laid back onto the small scrap of cloth that served as a bed, trying not to breath in the smell of a dozen men who hadn't washed for days, he became aware of someone in looking in through the window above him. Getting up, he found one of the guards peering in through the window, wearing a gas mask—odd, just what was his problem then?

"You sergeant Richardson?" the guard suddenly leaned forward, speaking in a muffled…English accent?

"Uh…yeah. Who the bloody hell are you?"

"The name's Steel. Nathan Steel. I heard that our Nipponese friends were conducting some…sensitive scientific ventures here, but now priorities have changed."

A spy. A bloody spy. He felt like laughing aloud. A Pommy spy nonetheless. Just his fucking day.

"So what now?"

"You get the hell out of here."

An explosion flared from somewhere in the camp, followed by the shouting of guards as he heard the sentry turrets open fire—but they didn't seem to be firing at prisoners…

"Wait—what do we do now?"

"Just get down to the coast." Said the spy, turning away. "That's all you have to think about."

As the man vanished, Richardson turned back to the others as they groggily got up.

"Alright, you snoring little drongos! Let's raise a bit of hell, shall we?"

Energy and adrenaline seemed to suddenly surge through the prisoners as they flooded out of their huts, cheering—the sentry guns were firing away, suppressing not them, but the guards. Richardson felt a new and growing sense of admiration for Allied intelligence—finally, the buggers had done something right for a change.

"What's going on? Where the fok do we go?" he saw Werve appear at his side, shouting over the roaring of the prisoners as they charged up to the gates, and began working on smashing them down.

"The coast!" Richardson yelled over the noise . "Everyone head down to the coast!"

He turned as the gates were brought down by the sheer weight of the prisoners, who flooded out onto the dirt path leading up to it, some of them rushing out into the surrounding rainforest. Richardson looked around, yelling shouts of encouragement, especially to the lads who had been reduced to just skin and bone—he was bloody well impressed with their will and perseverance even in their state. Still, they couldn't dawdle. He didn't imagine that the Japs wouldn't try resetting those sentries…

"Over here!"

Some of the prisoners were bringing out the modified motor-bike like machines the guards used to patrol the jungle—big, sleek, chunky things. _Kaneda _bikes, he heard they were called.

"Let's go, let's go!" he shouted, mounting one of the bikes as those dragonfly drones swooped down from the air, latching onto some of the prisoners and dragging them back. As Werve leapt onto the back of the bike, he started the engine and tore down the dirt road, weaving through the prisoners rushing down it.

"Freedom, ya beauty, freedom!" he laughed, sending monkeys on the road ahead scurrying back into the rainforest.

"Oh, fok!" Werve exclaimed. "Those robots!"

Looking over his shoulder, Richardson managed to see one of the mechanical dragonflies swoop down, before suddenly detonating—the explosion singed his tattered clothes, while the blast and the debris damn near sent him into the trees. Nonetheless, as he turned a corner, he could swear that he could smell the sea. Surely…

"No!"

One of the drones came swooping in from the right, latching onto the side of the bike near the rear. Letting go, Richardson let himself fly as the drone detonated a moment later, taking it and the bike with it. As flaming bits of metal landed in the mud around him, he could see that Werve had also made it, lying in the mud nearby and groaning.

"Come on, you bastard!" Richardson got up and continued rushing forward, ignoring the pain and rot in his body—dammit, he had got this far, he wasn't going back there again. If he died tonight, well, at least he died as a soldier rather than prisoner, no matter what that bastard Jap said.

"I see it! I see it!" Turning a corner, he saw the beach ahead, with the waters gently lapping. Werve was stumbling along, wincing in pain—Richardson quickly strode onto the sand, looking around. Where was the pickup? Was this the coast that pom meant?

"Oh, no…"

More of those drones were coming in over the trees towards them—shit. Richardson looked around him in desperation. Had the spy miscalculated? Had this been a distraction for something? Was he going to die out here, so close to freedom?

"Get down!"

.50 cal rounds tore into the drones as Riptide transports, painted black for night operations, appeared onto the beach, knocking out those blasted dragonflies with their inbuilt machineguns. Richardson let out a cheer as he ran up to the nearest one, with other prisoners also emerging from the trees and from the road.

"Ya beauty!" he exclaimed, punching the air. He was back in business—for damn sure. Now ol' Yoshiro had even more to pay for…


	28. Chapter XXIV: Marianas Platform

_Excerpt from CIA report entitled 'Dissertation of Variable craft within Imperial Japanese combined forces', delivered March 1974:_

_Although by all rights the maintenance and industrial quality required for the upkeep of Japanese variable craft should be detrimental to their deployment, it appears nonetheless that Imperial engineering has circumnavigated these issues judging by their prevalence along the front line. It appears that they do function more practically as military weapons than first thought, and this has thus shed more light on the incredible speed and efficiency of Japanese offensives in the Soviet Union._

_The premier variable craft is, of course, the Tenzai VG70 'Tengu', which can alternate between a mid-level dogfighting and aerial interdiction craft and an infantry suppression ground vehicle. It can just as easily harass aerial patrols as it can engage in urban pacification, as demonstrated in places like Vorkuta and Vladivostok. Nevertheless, it can be considered a 'jack of all trades', adequate but not excelling in either purpose of its variable modes. The Japanese appear to compensate for this by simply producing it en-masse. _

_Furthermore, it cannot be stressed enough that when manned by veteran pilots, the Tengu can be an extremely lethal machine. I refer to the report delivered by __Ejército del Aire officer Juan Padilla, reference ACAF-R164, for further study here. Also, judging by the preferred combat maneuvers enacted by veteran Tengu pilots in battle, it appears that Imperial air force officers seem to favor manic and reckless pilots for promotion…_

"_My Tengu is the one that will pierce the heavens! For there exists only one Yoshi Komino, whose manliness exerts itself across the globe!"_

Yoshi Komino, pilot of the Imperial Japanese Air Force, had not joined out of any sense of patriotism or national pride like some of his compatriots—no, he had not even bothered to learn the names of previous shoguns. He had not joined because of conscription programs—no, they didn't need to force _him _aboard for this. He hadn't joined because his family had exerted him to, nor because he had a girl to impress. No, he had joined simply because he wanted the adrenaline to flow through his body, to pierce the heavens—to make sure that in future dictionaries, they would simply put his name next to 'manliness'.

"Please, Yoshi, can we slow down...?"

A timid voice came from behind him—his co-pilot, Tezuka, an engineering student from Tokyo University who had been conscripted as part of 'His Divine Majesty's will to bring purpose and glorious patriotic duty to those without none'. The man made it obvious in his voice and in his face, even under his flight mask, that he didn't want to be here. Well, though. Komino didn't have time for wimps.

"Listen, my friend." He grinned as he injected more fuel into the afterburners. "When they talk about the paragon of sheer masculinity and incredibleness that is myself, even in the dark future when we go back to the caves, I would not like them to include that I was saddled with a little girl like you. So forget your fears and believe in yourself, or I will believe in the eject button that will 'accidentally' send you flying into the clouds!"

Laughing manically, Komino swooped down towards the objective, alongside other Imperial fighters—down below, was _Divine Sea Dragon II, _one of the several majestic oceanic floating fortress platforms constructed to demonstrate the might of the Japanese Empire to all the world—this particular one was a guardian of the nation, positioned over the Marianas Trench. It appeared, from what Komino had been told, that the Allied assaults on Hawaii had been mere distractions to divert the Emperor's naval might, to allow them a strike on this platform and thus leave the door to the Home Isles. Allied vanguard strike teams had reportedly already boarded it somehow and were attempting sabotage—and that was the only part Komino really cared about.

"The mighty and tenacious Komino sees ridiculous things such as physics as mere inconvenience!" he shouted to himself as he brought the Tengu into a sharp dive towards the platform, ignoring Tezuka's pleas for sanity. He could feel the G-force pressing on him, the epinephrine flowing—yes, this is what it was all about!

"_Transformation!_" he hollered as the deck of the platform loomed up ahead—Tezuka retched as metal slid and gyros whirred, transforming the shape of the craft. Using its jets to stabilize itself, the Tengu configured itself into its ground suppression mode, hovering about a meter above the metal deck. Komino took a moment to test the 'limbs' of the craft before hitting the thrusters, sending it shooting forward.

"Please, Komino, we need to give the systems time to adjust!" said Tezuka hysterically as they tore along, heading towards the fusion core centers where the gunfire was coming from. Strewn along the deck below them were the bodies of Imperial Navy seamen and occasionally Allied commandos.

"The enemy is sighted!" Komino cackled, ignoring his co-pilot, as Allied soldiers and Peacekeepers came into view ahead, apparently attempting to gain access to the fusion core. "My spirit and manliness flows from man into machine! _Super…Tengu…metal-slap…breaker!_"

The Allied boarders had just about enough time to turn around and wonder just what this metallic shape tearing towards them at dangerously high speed was before it impacted straight into their midst, splattering them across the decks or sending them flying and smashing against metal walls. Grabbing one of them with the right 'arm' of the Tengu, Komino span the machine around before letting go, sending the commando flying across the deck and into the ocean.

"Excellent!" he grinned. "Tezuka, you pussy, what was my previous record?"

"Uh…forty-five meters, I think…could you please not do that again?"

"Ha-ha!" he laughed. "I break my own standard as this machine pierces through the atmosphere! The air currents do not direct me—I bend them through my sheer badassrey!"

"All very well and good, but…"

Allied soldiers armed with Javelin missile launchers were already moving in from another part of the platform, and began to focus their laser-based targeting systems on the Tengu when Komino sent it roaring into action, before squeezing down on the weapons trigger. Superheated slugs came spitting out of the high-powered primary weapons of the mech, cutting into the heavy weapons soldiers before they could even squeeze their triggers.

"They think their little guns scare Komino!" he bellowed, tearing over the smoldering corpses of the enemy. "Me! Who came from the mists of the home isles to bring forward…"

"Watch out!"

An enemy amphibious 'Riptide' transport moved into position ahead, opening fire with its .50 cal machinegun. Komino had just enough time to move out of the way, the high-caliber enemy rounds chipping the side of the mech, before accelerating forward, grinning widely.

"_Mega…Tengu…kick-ass…tank breaker!_"

Seconds before impacting into the enemy vehicle, he angled the 'legs' of the Tengu towards it, indenting the hull straight away on impact. He cut the thruster power straight away, stalling the Tengu as the enemy vehicle was knocked onto its side and sent sliding away by the impact.

"How…how did you that?" said Tezuka breathlessly.

"By kicking logic out and doing the impossible!" Komino continued grinning. "Now, who else is left? Huh? Huh?"

Across the platform, it seemed that the Allied vanguard force was being rapidly eliminated—other Tengus were clearing out cowering enemy commandos in their mecha forms, with Rocket Angels and infantry providing support. Engineering teams were now being brought onto the platform to restore it to full operational status, as naval cruisers finally began to appear by its sides.

"Hold on…" Tezuka murmured as he listened in on friendly radio chatter. "Allied naval forces are still in the area, and are deploying aerial attackers. We are to interdict."

"The spirit of Komino shall sweep the heavens of all transgressors!" laughed Komino. "Behold! I am like a leaf on the wind! A very, very badass leaf on a wind that is my bitch!"

Tezuka again struggled to contain the contents of his stomach as maximum power was diverted to the thrusters, pushing the Tengu upwards into the air. Sheets of metal again folded and repositioned as it transformed back into its aerial combat form, before shooting off to join the squadrons of other fighters moving into the skies ahead of the platform. VX SAM missiles were already shooting out from its missile batteries, now being brought back online one by one.

"We have two squadrons of enemy Vindicator precision light bombers approaching from an aircraft carrier group to the west, supported by Apollos and Sky Knight drones." Said Tezuka, not attempting to hide the nervousness in his voice.

"You think I'm going to be scared by some Yankee cowboys and their silly machines?" roared Komino. "_**Who the hell do you think I am?**_"

With that, he hit the afterburners and streaked towards the Allied aircraft coming in from the naval group visible up ahead. Flares spat from the Tengu as long-range Allied missiles shot by, confused by the EM fields being projected by the Imperial jets. Finally, as soon as the targeting computer lit up, Komino laughed as he let rip with the autocannons, sending one enemy bomber spiraling down towards the dark blue waters of the Pacific beneath them.

"I, as a warrior of the Rising Sun, shall grab said sun and bludgeon my enemies violently with it!" he screamed as high-powered rounds from enemy fighters streaked over the canopy, with enemy Apollos peeling and banking as the aerial forces clashed. Tezuka glimpsed friendly Tengus burst open in flames as Allied fire tore into them, not even giving their pilots time to eject. Of course, all within the Imperial military were taught that to give one's life in battle was the highest honor, but Tezuka could not help but consider that a load of shit.

"I'm not sure we can hold them!" said Tezuka in desperation as enemy Vindicators pierced through the chaotic dogfights, spitting flares rapidly as VX missiles shot towards them. They definitely seemed bent on a bombing run on the platform—that would mean disaster.

"Believe that I believe in you, or I'll believe in your grave!" guffawed Komino as he span the Tengu on a dime. "It is time for a finishing move!"

"Oh, please, no!"

"_**Super…ultra…Tengu…whirlwind of aerial majesty!**_"

Screaming over one of the enemy bombers in the center of the formation, Komino laughed as he suddenly reconfigured the Tengu again, transforming it into mecha configuration right atop of the bomber—instantly locking its feet down onto its hull. As the enemy aircraft began to spin out of control with the weight, he fired the autocannons wildly, ignoring warnings of overheating—the rounds cut into the surrounding bombers, sending them diving downwards in flames as volleys of missiles began to strike down those who were not cut down.

"For that is the majesty of the glorious Komino!" he declared as he brought the craft back into jet configuration, leaving Tezuka in tears.

Down below, the battle seemed to be won for the Rising Sun—the primary railgun weapons of the floating platform appeared to be online, letting loose frightening barrages of the enemy naval group. Imperial battleships and cruisers also let loose with their own railguns and high-powered torpedoes, sending enemy vessels fleeing. To add to their cowardly retreat, the enemy air forces were also peeling away from their dogfights and trying to limp back to their carriers in desperation.

"Well, looks like we showed them…" breathed Tezuka, trying to find his normal breathing rate.

"Of course!" grinned Komino. "The Pacific remains ours! Now, all that remains is to show them that for sure!"

Taking one last glance at the retreating enemy forces, he thought about where they were going—back to America, probably. America—he had wanted to go there since he was a child, to see the White House, Statue of Liberty, Hollywood…so that he could tear 'em all apart!

"Oh yes, I think we're going to hit them where it really hurts…"


	29. Chapter XXV: Westwood

_Emergency Broadcast System display excerpt, 30__th__ March 1974:_

_ALL RESIDENTS OF LOS ANGELES COUNTY ARE ADVISED TO EVACUATE TO NATIONAL GUARD CAMPS IN SANTA CLARITA, RIVERSIDE, LANCASTER, AND BAKERSFIELD/_

_AIRLIFTS TAKING PLACE EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES FROM BEVERLY HILLS, BEL-AIR, GLENDALE/_

_BRING ONLY WHAT IS NECESSARY FOR YOUR SURVIVAL. HAVE ID PRESENT/_

_DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ASSIST MILITARY UNITS WITHOUT ANY PRIOR COMBAT TRAINING/_

_LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT/_

"…_and it's a beautiful morning here in LA! Despite growing concern over the state of the Pacific front, residents of Santa Monica and Long Beach are already heading out to get their morning tans! In the meantime, we'll turn you over to Clive, for his traffic report…"_

Los Angeles Police Department officer Daniel Alvarez took a sip of delicious hot java as he cruised down a side-street here in sunny Westwood, near the San Diego freeway. Not everyone had been happy with Estates Amalgamated purchasing so much property here, but what could you do. At least morning patrols like this were usually calm these days, especially after all the crackdowns following the riots against Asian or Asian-descended citizens here—the city had to have some sort of semblance of order even in these troublesome times. He could still see the occasional smashed window or the angry graffiti…just like 1941 all over again, he thought grimly.

"_Alvarez!_" he jumped as the voice of his sergeant barked out of the car radio. "_Head down towards 14__th__ street, we've got reports of disturbances."_

"What kind?" he groaned.

"_No specifications yet…"_

"Copy that, sir, heading down towards 14th."

"_Oh, and Alvarez! Stop off for donuts on the way back, I'm feeling peckish._"

"Copy that as well." He sighed, as he put his foot down on the gas and began to head in the direction of Santa Monica. Maybe another anti-Asian riot was brewing. Or hell, maybe someone hadn't got their paycheck—it was Saturday, after all.

"_Alvarez!_"

What now?

"_Check out the…_"

Alvarez raised an eyebrow as the sound from the radio degenerated into static—what was going on? Interference? Maybe the antenna was broken? Still, he had his instructions. He felt that it was a bit unusual for there to be 'disturbances' this early already, even for LA.

"This is Officer Alvarez, calling any units in the Westwood area." He spoke into his radio, as he passed some people crowded around a TV store. Odd. What was going on there? "Requesting any further information on reported disturbances in Santa Monica."

Still static. He didn't like this.

"This Officer Alvarez." He repeated, as he began to pass into suburban streets of overpriced houses and spotless cars on the sidewalk. "Requesting…"

He came to a halt as some teenager came running towards the car, waving and looking worried. Asshole better not be asking him to fetch his basketball, he thought absently.

"Officer, there's some sort of crap going on down at the beaches…" he said hurriedly. "I just heard…"

"I know, I've been dispatched there." Sighed Alvarez. Still, it had to something, for someone to actually approach an LA cop about something.

"Now, citizen," he continued, "all I can ask you is to…"

There was a faint screaming sound in the distance, followed by a muffled boom and the ground trembling under his feet. Car alarms were activated all over the neigborhood. Another scream. Another boom. Getting out of the car, he could hear the faint sounds of panic and shouting in the distance. Looking around, as the ground again shook, he could see what appeared to be smoke rising from the direction of the waterfront. Oh god. What the hell was this? No, couldn't be. Couldn't happen. Someone attacking America? Had to be some sick joke. Had to be, dammit.

"Citizen," he said hoarsely, "I recommend you evacuate the area."

Getting back into the car, he stepped on the gas and tore back the way he came, turning his sirens on, as citizens began to come out of their houses in confusion, some of them clearly just haven gotten up. He twisted the knobs of the car's radio, desperate to get something out of the static.

"—_all over Venice Beach—" _

"—_waterfront in flames—"_

He had enough time to wonder if this was a really big riot before a van came tearing out of a side-street, damn nearly colliding with him, and partially aflame. Usually he would've ticketed the asshole, but this time he wasn't interested. As more citizens emerged from buildings in panic and confusion, he came to a stop near the electronics store he had passed and got out, pushing aside citizens crowding around. He glimpsed what looked like a breaking news report—it looked like landing craft descending on Santa Monica beach, while something huge behind them bombarded waterfront homes with…oh god.

"Citizens!" he shouted over the hubbub. "I recommend you evacuate further inland immediately!"

Nobody listened, of course, but at least he was trying to do something, he reckoned. With that, he got back into the car and turned on the radio, twisting another dial. Finally, something.

"_All units! Assist citizens evacuating Santa Monica area! National Guard units are en route!"_

National Guard? _Just what the fuck was going on?_

Getting back into the car, he decided he may as well do his fucking duty and turned back into a suburban street, with people scrambling out of their houses with as much luggage as they could carry. The air was beginning to smell of smoke, with huge black masses rising out from the direction of the waterfront. What sounded like chattering gunfire rang out, as he activated his car speakers.

"_Evacuate calmly and in an orderly fashion!" _he blared. "_Bring only essential items!"_

Again, nobody seemed to listen. But at least he was trying.

All thoughts then disappeared from his mind as he noticed what looked like waves of helicopters passing overhead, filling the sky—not a type he recognized. Jets streaked overhead, leaving contrails in the sky. Too fast for him to tell what they were. He then doubletaked as some of the helicopters seemed to suddenly drop down like stones, their tail sections swinging forward as they did. Was this…was this…no, couldn't be. All some bad dream he was having. He'd wake up in his apartment soon enough.

The missile that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, impacting into one of the homes down the street, along with the following blast, screaming, and flaming debris being thrown down shook any thought about that out of his head.

"_Citizens, move! Drop your crap and get the hell out of here!"_ he shouted, hoping that'd have some actual effect. He noticed some sort of machine emerged out of the smoke—a walker, with skinny legs and rotors folded behind its large cockpit compartment. He'd heard about those transforming Japanese vehicles…oh, shit.

Alvarez scrambled out of his car and joined the throngs of panicked citizens as the mech jumped onto the roof of a nearby house with fluid organic ease, launching another missile that impacted into the middle of the street, sending people flying and overturning parked vehicles. Ducking to dodge flying molten bits of asphalt going over his head, Alvarez covered his ears as they rang for several moments, as the mech jumped onto another rooftop, moving like some sort of dancer. So, it seemed, the Japs had finally invaded—he tried to let that fact sink in…

Some people cheered as a National Guard personnel carrier, accompanied by two IFVs equipped with heavy-duty shotgun weapons, appeared at the end of the road, opening fire upon the damn thing. Twitching as high-caliber rounds impacted against it, the mech leapt up, ascending into the air as its legs folded back and the rotors spread out, transforming back into a helicopter configuration. The sky above was criss-crossed with contrails and dark clouds, as more aircraft shot across it in various directions.

"What's going on?" he panted to a Guardsman as he ran up to the carrier, opening up to let citizens in.

"What the fuck do you think? Japs hit us for real, and hit us hard. They just went and levelled most of Santa Monica with one of those bigass floating fortress things of theirs."

"You mean…"

"I mean that we're fucked. Get in."

Scrambling into the carrier as the doors were shut, Alvarez found himself crammed in alongside sweating, panicked citizens, clearly having difficulty comprehending the situation. People had talked about America being invaded before, obviously, in all the various scares about the Reds, but for the most part nobody had actually seriously considered it happening, least of all by a nation that had essentially remained invisible for the last few decades…

What felt like an eternity seemed to pass before the carrier came a halt, with the citizens getting out into what looked like a forward National Guard post in a small park. People were shouting into radios and walkie-talkies around him, as citizens were herded into waiting Nighthawks. Several Grizzly tanks, outmoded but still forming the backbone of the Guard's armor, rumbled by on a nearby road. Surrounded by all this, Alvarez nearly found himself forgetting that he was a cop; he felt just as helpless and confused as all the people around him.

"_Any citizens with combat training, report to your nearest military officer!"_

He supposed that if he was to do anything here, he might as well say he actually did something on this day. With that, he ran over to a small group of weapon-brandishing citizens crowding in front of a National Guard officer currently shouting into a radio.

"Who are you?" he turned to Alvarez.

"Daniel Alvarez, LAPD."

"A cop, eh? Good as anything. Now listen up, people! Nips have hit us, and frankly, they're winning. They've just seized Santa Monica airport and they launched strikes on El Toro before we knew what was going on. They've established solid beachheads and that damn floating platform blasts the shit out of anything that comes near them. Our only hope is to try and hold them off while we evacuate the area."

"What about reinforcements, sir?" someone asked.

"Fuck if I know." The officer shrugged. "Now…"

Something screamed overhead and impacted near the edge of the camp, overturning a Grizzly. Chaos broke out in the camp as citizens began running in whichever direction presented itself, as Guardsmen tried to hold them, or ran off in panic themselves. Alvarez felt the ground shake under his feet as a harsh Japanese voice bellowed out from what felt like very nearby.

"_Citizens of Los Angeles! You are now under the occupation of the Imperial Japanese Army. Do not attempt any insurrection, or we will react with extreme prejudice. Resistance is futile!"_

Well shit, he thought, as he followed militia and soldiers rushing off into a nearby side street, towards what looked like Santa Monica Boulevard. On the way, he listened in on the chatter coming from the radios on the Guardsmen:

"_Bastards are seizing media stations…"_

"_Task Force Prince is moving into Bel-Air under Major Banks…"_

"_We need armor support at Barrington Avenue, stat!"_

Alvarez took a deep breath as they burst out into the open on Santa Monica Boulevard, with tanks and howitzers moving forward along it. The men immediately ducked behind sandbags spread out on the sidewalk, as explosions rang out nearby. A McBurger Kong across the street was partially ablaze, and further away he glimpsed the Massivesoft building in flames. To see things he passed every morning, just gone up like that…it was hard to stop his head from spinning.

"Oh, shit!"

He turned as the ground suddenly juddered under his feet. Looking up, he tried not to brown his pants as he saw an immense hulking shape come striding down the boulevard towards them, glistening white in the California sunlight. He had seen them on TV and in the papers—'King Oni' mechs. He didn't know much about them, except that they were cause to run away screaming.

"Fire at will!"

The armored vehicles let loose, as Javelin-armed squads across the road opened fire with their laser-guided munitions. The titanic mech didn't even flinch as it moved forward, cracking the road under its feet. Shells, missiles…didn't even seem to char the paint. Alvarez could think of no better way of saying 'we're here to take over, and there isn't shit you little bastards can do about it'.

"_Oh, craaaap!"_

For a moment, the machine's 'eyes' lit up, before releasing searing blue streaks of energy, striking one of the tanks and incinerating it within moments. The beams moved forward, tearing through the other vehicles like they weren't there, reducing the asphalt underneath them into molten soup. The missile teams were shredded into fried lumps of flesh as enemy jets streaked low overhead, strafing them casually. Watching as the huge mech walked up to one of the tanks desperately going into reverse, Alvarez tried not to run as the Oni picked up the Grizzly with its pincers, raised it into the air, and crushed it like it was paper. Behind it, what looked like a giant cannon on wheels moved into position and opened fire with a larger pulsing beam, piercing through multiple buildings which were then torn apart in searing conflagrations. With that, he got up and ran with all the energy he could get from his adrenaline.

Moving into a side-street, where Guardsmen were ushering evacuating citizens along, despite looking scared out of their minds themselves, he paused in front of another electronics store to watch the report going on—it showed a view of Santa Monica ablaze, with a gigantic metal island sitting in the bay. There was something about the National Guard establishing a large artillery position at Griffith Observatory before the picture was consumed by static, before being replaced by one of a bug-eyed cartoon girl in what looked like a Japanese military uniform.

"_Konichiwa!" _she saluted in a voice that sounded like a five-year old on helium. "America! Why do you fight? It is very, very, saddening. We only wish to bring you freedom from your corrupt and abrasive leaders—real freedom! Do you not wish you live in a paradise, like our own home isles? Then please stop fighting, for it is making me very, very sad. Now, for a message from our Divine Emperor!"

Alvarez could now see what they meant about media centers being seized. So this is what the Japs wanted with them. He stepped back as an image of Emperor Yoshiro himself appeared in place of the cartoon broad.

"Citizens of the United States." He boomed. "Once, we were a dwarf, and you were a giant—now, the giant has grown weak and decrepit while the dwarf grew and rose to displace him. Your time as a superpower is over. You will submit to the benevolent will of the Empire of the Rising Sun. Those who bow will be granted mercy. Those who resist shall be granted death by the blade. It is your choice."

"Fuckin' madman!"

He turned to see several militia run by, including what looked like an Asian-American among them—Alvarez guessed that not everybody of their type was going to kowtow to an old man just because he declared himself to be a god.

Adrenaline again surged through him as an explosion flared several blocks away, strong enough to shatter windows and shake cars—he ran, following the directions of Guardsmen shouting about a chopper pickup. Turning a corner, he breathed a sigh of relief as a Nighthawk descended onto the street, with citizens crowding around it. Pushing through, he immediately clambered aboard as the doors opened, with the soldiers there barely stopping people from just flooding aboard. Moments later, the chopper was full, and he watched the scenes below as it ascended into the air—Santa Monica Boulevard was covered in a convoy of Japanese armor and mechs moving down it like they fucking owned it, with smokestacks rising all over the place. The chopper turned, allowing him a view of downtown LA—several skyscrapers were on fire, like a scene from a bad Hollywood movie. Speaking of which, he could just make out the Hollywood sign in the far distance, missing its 'D'.

As the Nighthawk joined a wing of other choppers moving over the stricken city, he could only register one coherent thought: America was being invaded, and she was losing.


	30. Chapter XXVI: Syktyvkar

_Popular story among Soviet tankers:_

_A capitalist and a Bolshevik stand facing each other. _

"_Ha!" says the capitalist. "You cannot hope to withstand my cutting-edge products! Surely, how can a peasant like you hope to compete with me?"_

"_It's very simple." Says the Bolshevik. "We use the straightforward methods that work, and work very well. You have no means of counteracting them."_

"_Oh? And what would that mean?"_

"_Crushing you under the treads of very big tanks, little bitch."_

"I wonder, do they believe in a God? No matter. Once this day is over, they shall all be atheists."

The chassis of the T-666 Apocalypse Tank _October Glory _shuddered as her forward 125mm 'Drakon' cannons discharged giant high-explosive shells towards a building ahead, filled with enemy infantry and surrounded by anti-aircraft mechs spewing blossoms of missiles into the sky. Impacting into the structure, the shells detonated within, causing such a conflagration and blast that the mechs were sent flying, legs and cockpits tearing apart. The building itself was reduced to dust within an instant, showering debris in a radius of hundreds of meters. Watching this through the tank periscope, tank commander Nazary Kuratov could not help but curve his mouth into a crude smile.

Rolling over the crest of a hill, the massive tank, accompanied by a number of other Soviet vehicles, bore down towards the town of Syktyvkar, capital of the Komi region. Revitalized by Allied support—who'd ever think that one would have something to be grateful to the capitalists for?—the Red Army had finally initiated a full counterattack against the Nipponese enemy with all it's might. Above, waves of MiGs twisted and turned with enemy fighters, trying to avoid the volleys of weaving missiles from below—which was where the thundering columns of Soviet armor descending upon the town came in. _October Glory _was spearheading the charge, rumbling forward as enemy fire came out from the smoke, harmlessly glancing off her reinforced hull, wielded by Soviet workers who only had vengeance on their minds. The Japanese bastards had no doubt been smug in their confidence of victory, hitting the Motherland when her back was turned. It was time to bring them down to Earth.

"Look at them run!" Main gunner Sidorov laughed manically as Japanese infantrymen scurried over the smouldering rubble ahead, with Gatling fire from accompanying Sickle walkers mowing into them. Around him, as he sat strapped into his seat, Kuratov could barely see his fellow crewmen even with such a large interior—mainly because it was taken up by mechanisms to keep this mighty beast moving and ammunition. The inbuilt Tesla reactor meant that it was not quite such a din in here as other Soviet tanks, but the growling of the treads and clanking of shells still made sure everyone had to shout.

"Are the little babies gonna cry some more?" he heard Georgian driver Lomidze shout as the tank crushed it's way over lines of barbed wire and barricades. Mines exploded under her treads, but had no noticeable effect. Kuratov fondly remembered the battle of Liepzig, where she had torn her way through Allied tank units like they were paper. Even when the fascist dogs desperately resorted to dropping fuel air bombs on her, she had still ripped through her lines, and had the scars to prove it. _October Glory _bore many kill markings; Kuratov intended to add more.

"Comrade commander!" He heard the tank's engineer Olesky—such a large tank needed at least one engineer to keep it all in order—shout from the loading areas below. "Maybe we can try out the M-harpoon? Just so we can see their slit-eyed faces!"

"I like the sound of that." Kuratov grinned, as the tank plowed straight into another occupied building on the town boundary. Anti-armor infantry desperately fired their searing plasma beams from within, beams that would've melted ordinary tank shells like butter under the sun—but these merely charred the paint job. Ramming into the structure, _October Glory _ground the rubble into dust as the whole thing collapsed instantly. The escort vehicles mopped up any of the dogs who somehow managed to survive, as the column surged into Syktyvkar proper. The priority was to eliminate the Japanese anti-air holdings, so that waves of Barsuk bombers could bring in thousands of infantrymen to overwhelm whatever was left. Kuratov chuckled; as if that would be necessary once they were done.

"Up ahead!" Lomidze barked as they drove up into a street, still bearing the scars of the initial invasion. The Japanese had overstretched themselves trying to fight everyone at once; now they would pay the price for their lack of foresight.

Turning his eyes to the periscope viewer, Kuratov could see three enemy 'Tsunami' light tanks moving up the road towards them, accompanied by hovering 'Tengu' mechs. Due to her sheer bulk, _October Glory _took up most of the street's width, preventing the column behind her from getting a target on the vehicles ahead—as if it made a difference.

"Activate harpoon!" Kuratov barked as the Tsunami tanks opened fire with their accelerated shells, impacting against the forward hull—shaking the interior a bit, but otherwise nothing. A whine then came from the front of the Apocalypse as massive churning grinders extended, and then one of the enemy tanks was pulled forward violently as if by an invisible hand. Its fellow vehicles stopped as if in disbelief as it was quickly pulled under the huge grinders, armor crumpling like paper. Within moments, it was swallowed underneath the Apocalypse, churned into fine metal dust that could theoretically be processed into raw materials for shells and more tanks, or at least Kuratov heard. He didn't really care what the practical boons were—it was just satisfying as screwing a Kiev slut.

Ahead, the enemy vehicles were desperately backing away, firing futilely. A trio of Japanese helicopters—they were what those anti-air mechs could reconfigure into, Kuratov knew—moved in from the air ahead, spraying missiles downwards. The tank shook as they impacted, denting the turret's armor, but Kuratov still remained unconcerned, for the air around those annoying choppers was filled with flak as the accompanying Bullfrog anti-air transports started up. He had heard many tankers argue for the need for missile launchers on Apocalypse tanks, but to him, that would just mean more maintenance, and more importantly, less room for lots and lots of high-caliber hi-ex shells, just like the ones he was going to use right now.

"Guns loaded!" Sidorov shouted as autoloaders clanked.

"Clear the way." Kuratov snapped.

Windows down the street shattered as the guns fired, sending two huge shells landing right in the midst of the tanks ahead. The Tengu mechs were already attempting to reconfigure into their fighter mode as the explosion billowed, consuming them in fire and smoke. Nothing was left but smoke and charred husks as _October Glory _rumbled on, leaving crewmen in the vehicles behind her cheering with nationalism that only Soviet tankers could express.

"Second column is coming in from the Sylosa." Lomidze reported as chatter burst in from radios. "Encountering minor resistance from enemy tanks moving on the river, and from flying infantry."

"We'll show those wimpy little shits how things are done!" Kuratov laughed as the tank turned a corner, causing a nearby house to collapse as she accidentally grazed the side. He didn't care—meant less places for the bastards to cower in.

"Wait—" Lomidze paused. "Comrade, we have something—"

A humming filled the air outside as Bullfrog turrets swivelled, releasing flak shells as a swarm of small objects came diving in from the sky. The bursts of explosive munitions were not enough to stop what Kuratov realized were enemy 'Sunburst' suicide drones, little devils packed with explosives, strafing targets before ramming into them at high speed.

"_Brace for impact!"_

The tank shook as about a dozen drones impacted head-on into her, with a few others slamming into the vehicles behind her. Kuratov's head slammed against the metal beside him as he was rocked around, while nails burst from rivets. He managed to come back to his senses a moment later, as lights flashed nearby. The _October Glory _still seemed to operational, but at what cost?

"Damage report!" he shouted.

"Front armor's taken some hit!" Lomidze reported. "I think…Olesky's been knocked unconscious!"

Excellent, thought Kuratov. The one bastard who maybe could've fixed whatever had been knocked out of alignment…

"Are we still combat operational?"

"Oh yes, but if the enemy concentrates their fire…"

"Well, we'll just not give them the chance. Onward!"

Rumbling forward, the tank continued on towards the city center, where they knew the enemy had concentrated most of its forces. Artillery fire and V4 missiles impacted into areas around them, but the Motherland wasn't going to save herself by blasting artillery on her lands, Kuratov knew. Through the periscope, he could see more bursts of missiles shooting out from behind buildings ahead into the air, warding off gunships and bombers trying to penetrate into the city to provide air support. The plan was to go through the streets clearing them along as they went, but…

"Fuck it—go straight through those buildings! Full speed!"

"I hear you, boss!" Lomidze grinned, as he hit the accelerator. Moving across a small square, the Apocalypse hit another small apartment block in front of it, also filled with enemy infantry desperately firing away at it—even in her somewhat compromised state, she still shrugged off even their superheated and superaccelerated rounds. Crashing right through the building, the _October Glory _crossed another street, crushing another enemy mech unfortunate enough to be in it's way under treads and grinders, and into another structure, clearing a way straight for the anti-air.

"More gnats!" Lomidze hissed as Kuratov made out more small flying objects come out from behind a factory chimney—'Rocket Angel' infantry with flying exoskeletons. He could not deny that he rather envied those vixens in their pretty armor, but he hoped the Bullfrog gunners still had their eyes sharp.

"Shit!" Sidorov barked as one of the flying armored bitches aimed some sort of beam at the tank, immobilizing her immediately. Sickles and Bullfrogs opened up into the air with flak and Gatling fire, but the damned things were nimble, moving around while keeping their beams and missiles trained on the mighty tank. Still, Kuratov thought, it would be a while before they actually did any…

"Oh, for Lenin's…comrade commander, at thirty degrees…"

Glancing through the periscope in the appropriate direction, Kuratov winced as a vehicle almost as large as the Apocalypse appeared at the end of the street, essentially a huge cannon on a wheeled chassis—Japanese energy wave artillery. Deadly enough to vaporize buildings, and one of the few enemy ground vehicles that _October Glory_'s tankers had right to fear.

"What the fuck are those bastards doing?" Lomidze shouted, even as some of the Rocket Angels began to drop, riddled with shrapnel or bullets. As the tank continued to sit immobilized, the cannon of the artillery vehicle began to whine as it charged up an energy pulse, one that could potentially slag her armor. Those flying things weren't being dropped fast enough—they were sitting ducks here!

An explosion suddenly flared in the midst of the Angels, sending them plummeting down, before a MiG fighter came spiralling and trailing smoke from the smoke, crashing a few blocks away. It took Kuratov less than a moment to work it out—truly a brave sacrifice. Now to make it mean something!

"Reverse! Reverse!" he shouted. Lomidze was already on it, just as the artillery thing fired—a searing energy pulse shot by the _Glory _as she pulled back, hot enough to melt off some of her remaining armor plates on the front.

"Shells loaded!"

"Aim forty degrees!"

Swivelling, the turret of the tank trained on the artillery vehicle, desperately backing off, before buildings once again buckled with the force of her discharge—the enemy vehicle went up consumed in fire less than a second later.

"Great work!" Kuratov shouted. "Now, we make up for lost time!"

Surging forward, the _October Glory _crashed through another block at full speed, finally bursting out into a major square, where a number of Nipponese missile mechs, fixed launchers, and batteries sat firing off missiles into the sky. Infantry crouched behind sandbags and more of those light tanks opened fire on the Soviet armored craft as they poured out, giving much more than they were taking. As two more shells were loaded, Kuratov smiled as he saw the mechs and launcher operators turn around and stand frozen as if in horror.

"Little bitches…it is day of judgement."


	31. Chapter XXVII: San Francisco

_Excerpt from the diary of unknown National Guard soldier, dated early May 1974:_

_It finally fucking happened. We've been invaded. Not by the commies, but by the fucking Japanese. We didn't hear a peep from them for thirty fucking years, who would've thought it? And now here they are, kicking our asses so hard we'll soon be eating goddamn toilet paper. Washington doesn't seem to know what the hell it's doing, and the less said about what the fuck is going on in the Oval Office the better. _

_The Japs have established themselves in LA, and as far as I know we're struggling to contain them. They've been raiding all over the West Coast, from San Diego to San Fran. There's not a damn thing we can do about. They've got these submersibles that can flip out of the water and fly...they've got landing craft that fool us into thinking they're refugee boats…god help us all. They say they can't possibly take over the whole country, but if they nearly did so with the Reds…god help us all. _

"Plasma conduits all checking out. How're things looking, Tsukada?"

Pilot Okajima of the Imperial Japanese Navy moved his fingers across the touch-sensitive controls in front of him, strapped into the main cockpit of the sleek Shirada S6D 'Sea-Wing' configurable fighter, moving almost noiselessly through the waters off the coast of California. With several other such craft following behind his, he couldn't help but marvel at the superb engineering that went into designing these manta-like vessels, what with their ability to reconfigure between lethal underwater missile platforms to screaming aerial attack gunships. His father had worked on manufacturing Zero aircraft years before—true classics, those—and he was astonished at how far Japan had moved on since then. How could these corrupt, stagnating Western powers prevail against such dynamism?

"Looking good. Thought we had a problem in gyro control, but that's sorted."

His co-pilot Tsukada sat behind him, in charge of monitoring the systems and operating the weapons. He too, had a passion for machinery…when offered the chance to serve in the Imperial Navy, witnessing the full power of Japan's industrial strength, he hadn't hesitated in joining.

"Very well. Standby to initiate Sky-Wing configuration…"

He recalled his objectives. They were to strike into San Francisco, to sow terror among the American citizens, and dive back into the sea as soon as sufficient damage was caused. As the Emperor had said on his broadcasts to the nation, destroying an enemy's soul was just as important as destroying his body. While he took no pleasure in killing people, Okajima had decided that if they were sufficiently awed and panicked by Japan's strength, the American people would surely consider lowering their arms.

"Preparing to initiate configuration in five…four…three…two…one…"

Okajima held his breath as the Seawing lurched upwards, piercing out through the Californian waters as it's body flipped around the pilot pod. The whirring of underwater turbines were replaced by the growling of jet engines as it took upwards—looking out through the canopy, Okajima took in the sight of San Francisco, the jewel of California. The Golden Gate Bridge, the pyramid-like TransAmerica building…nothing compared to the majesty of Tokyo or the ornate beauty of Kyoto, but he felt almost shamed to deal damage onto such a city.

"Hold on…" Tsukada uttered. "Incoming missiles—firing off countermeasures."

Missile sites along the Golden Gate Park were spitting off warheads towards them—banking the craft away, Okajima watched as the squadron spat off dazzling flares, hoping that'd be enough to survive the barrage.

"_This is Skywing Three—go and complete the objective, we'll divert their missiles."_

"Copy that." Okajima nodded as he hit the accelerator and started off towards San Francisco bay. Behind him, Tsukada calmly and emotionlessly activated the weapons control, firing off bursts of kinetically accelerate pulse shots down into the suburbs below. Panels flashed green to signify direct hits as homes were blown apart in flame below, and burning craters were torn into streets. Okajima wondered momentarily what sort of person this made him, to casually allow such destruction, so detached from where he could appreciate it's effects…but orders were orders, and he had to fulfil them.

He guided the craft towards the shape of the Golden Gate Bridge—the road was packed with vehicles trying to get out of the city, with some simply crawling over the mass of cars and trucks blocking it up. Boats were also making their way across the bay…it was like some sort of exodus.

"Orders update." Tsukada announced. "We're to hit the convoys moving along the bridge…"

"What?" Okajima uttered. He wondered just how those civilians down there felt—and then realized it wasn't his position to wonder such things. "Why? There is little honor in that…"

"Americans are hot-blooded people." Tsukada simply said emotionlessly. "If those civilians do not make themselves combatants now, they will eventually…"

"Very well." Okajima said. Instilled with the instinct to obey orders for so many years…he couldn't help but try and shunt his doubts out of his mind. With that, he swung the craft by the bridge, as Tsukada readied weapons and opened fire into the midst of all those vehicles crammed down there—conflagrations burst one by one along the bridge highway as people and machines were engulfed in searing fire. Some of them, bodies set entirely alight, threw themselves off the side of the bridge—Okajima tried his best to focus on the mission, not to let this horrific sight take hold of him…but this was most difficult indeed.

"Strike complete." Tsukada uttered as they pulled up, leaving multiple columns of smoke rising up along the bridge. Further smokestacks were now rising up, peppered across the city, presumably from the other members of the squadron. Okajima wondered just what sort of chaos was brewing down there…he did not know much of how Americans thought, so he could only guess if they were in despair or rage.

"Hold on…"

Tsukada looked thoughtful as further orders were transmitted to them.

"Angle towards Alcatraz Island…"

Complying, Okajima brought them over San Francisco bay, flying low over the water towards that prison island he had heard about, sitting in the water like a lone pebble in a pool of water. Except now there appeared to be additional structures sitting there…as far as he could tell, that included what appeared to be a very large cannon of some sort…

"What is that?" he asked.

"The Americans, as far as we can tell, appear to be constructing a Proton Collider weapon—a potential obstacle to our liberation of California." Tsukada said. The more he spoke, Okajima felt, the less human that man sounded. Perhaps a man like him would have been more suited for what they had just done…

"And we are to eliminate it?" he said. "Just us?"

"The others will distract their defences in the city." Tsukada said nonchalantly. "If we die, we do so with honor."

True enough, Okajima thought soberly, as he began to slow down, taking in the targets on the island ahead. The collider cannon itself, nearly fully constructed, several power planets…and a number of missile sites, angling towards them.

"Standby with countermeasures…"

Okajima gritted his teeth as waves of missiles shout out from the island defences, barrelling the Sky-Wing as flares were spat off. Switching on the craft's ECM fields, he was shaken in the cockpit as several missiles nevertheless detonated almost right next to them, searing the smooth white surface and sending several shards of shrapnel embedded into the fuselage. Nevertheless, he accelerated, and brought the craft in low over the island, almost close enough to see the various enemy personnel running around there.

"Firing…"

He slowed down as Tsukada sent multiple shots into the power plants constructed there, igniting the cores within them. One by one, the structures detonated, sending flaming debris raining down across Alcatraz, and adding more ominous columns of smoke to the ones already blackening the morning sky above. That was another directive complete…but now his panels were flashing from the damage they had suffered, and the missile launchers were again turning in their direction.

"Damage to the fuselage." He reported. He blinked as the radar suddenly began to register enemy aircraft incoming from the east—damned Apollo fighters by their signatures. "Suggest we re-enter Sea-Wing configuration…"

"Copy."

As more waves of missiles shot out from Alcatraz's defences, the craft's body again flipped as it dived into the water, sending the warheads flying off aimlessly. Surrounded by the blue murk, he felt almost comforted, no longer having to see what he had just wrought on the city. Accelerating forwards, he turned his head as they eventually passed the supports of the Golden Gate Bridge, and quickly turned it back again as he noted the burnt corpses of civilians sinking downwards from above.

"Mission completed." Tsukada said flatly. "Return to the _Divine Sea Dragon._"

All Okajima could think of was that there be fewer people like his co-pilot, or else there truly would be no worth in war.


	32. Chapter XXVIII: Mount Rushmore

_From the journals of Colonel Warren Fuller, US Army, May 1974:_

_I never thought I'd be saying this, but things have got so insane these last few days I can barely keep up. The Japs are damn near about to break our defences in California and the Pentagon's tearing it's hair out. Things are looking better in Europe and Russia but if Yoshiro takes the West Coast, he's untouchable. Damn…half the shit the Nips are using is decades ahead of ours. How the hell did they develop it so quickly?_

_But that ain't all. We've just had vital reinforcements bound for California rerouted to South Dakota. There's some sort of shitstorm brewing at intel. Just heard that the President's disappeared from the White House, and several National Guard units are failing to respond…and that the Russkies are starting to point V-missiles at us. _

_Now I've just heard that Congress authorized the immediate arrest of the POTUS by any means necessary. I just…I don't know what the hell the world's on these days, but hell, what's gotta be done gotta be done._

"Alright people, let's stay frosty…"

Gripping his M16 rifle tightly as he walked along a stony road snaking along a cliff edge within the Mount Rushmore National Park, US Army Ranger Andy Phillips found himself still struggling to determine if this was just some strange dream or not. Hours ago, he had been awaiting transportation to LA to push back the Japanese invaders, and now all of a sudden he and other Allied troops were told to advanced in on Mount Rushmore of all places, with rumors spreading of President Ackerman going crazy or something. While didn't consider himself particularly interested in politics, Philips had always seen the Ultrarepublican president as at least having America's greater interests at heart. Why would he suddenly warrant Congress issuing an arrest warrant for him?

"_Potential hostiles at 11 o'clock, 2300 meters…" _

Accompanying him along the path were several other Rangers, Mexican soldiers, and Canadian Peacekeepers brandishing their characteristic shields and heavy-duty shotguns. But rumbling along in the middle of them was an Athena satellite weapon designation vehicle, brandishing a large laser targeting array that would bring down a beam of concentrated solar particle energy onto anything it pointed at. He had heard stories from Europe of Soviet armored divisions being stopped short as their previously unstoppable tanks were melted into sludge by brilliant million-degree beams. Inside him, the giddy child awed by pictures of trains and tanks just wanted to see it get into action as soon as possible.

"Lock and load, man…"

The Canadians brought up their metal shields as Philips paused and brought up his night-vision binoculars. In a cluster of trees a few clicks ahead he could make out what looked like a small battery of light howitzers…and beyond that the Rushmore monument itself, with some kind of base constructed at its foot. He had heard of the National Guard outpost placed during the monument's renovation last year as a precaution against 'commie terrorists' or something…and now it seemed it was being used by special divisions and militia groups selected for their loyalty to the President, if the radio chatter was anything to go by. Shit man, he thought. If only he'd voted for Nixon.

"_Kilo-8, we got incoming on your position." _His radio buzzed, moments before the howitzers in the distance resounded with the sound of ballistic fire, muzzle flares lighting up the night forest around them.

Instinctively moving for cover by the rocks on the road's edge, Philips watched as the dish mounted on the rear segment of the Athena platform split open and projected a beam of light outwards. His expression of panic turned into a wide grin as it projected outward an umbrella-like shield around the immediate area. Seconds later, the shells hit against the side of the energy shield, dissipating harmlessly against the energy barrier.

"Yeah, suck that!" one of the Canadians shouted gleefully as the shield faded away. Moments passed as the laser designator of the Athena casually swivelled in the direction of the battery, before emitting a thin red beam right at the central gun. A few tense seconds, and then…

"Boom!"

Philips whooped as a glowing red beam shot down from the night sky, impacting right into the midst of the gun battery. The entire unit was instantly vaporized by the heat of the beam, with little damage to the immediate surrounding area. Taking a step back, Philips wondered for a moment just what things had come to that he was cheering the deaths of his own fellow Americans. But, he thought, the sooner this was over with, the sooner he could be fighting the real enemy. As long as this was over with quick.

"Okay, let's…_chingada madre!_" one of the Mexican soldiers gasped as something began to change with the monument in the distance ahead. The top of Theodore Roosevelt's head was beginning to unfold, opening up to reveal what looked like a large particle cannon aiming upwards towards the starry sky above.

"Sweet Jesus." A Canadian nearby uttered. "This is what you guys spent your defence budget on?"

Not bothering to reply, Philips quickened his pace as further Allied forces began to move in through the forests and paths they were overlooking, plowing over trees as they went. Obsolete Grizzly tanks being apparently used by Ackerman's men were moving in to intercept them, only to be cut apart by the highly-tuned spectral beams of camouflaged AMX-VT4 Mirage tanks lurking in the woods. As the sounds of automatic weapons came from other parts of the woods, Philips remained thankful that at least they didn't have long. Ackerman's loons were outnumbered and outclassed. Surely they'd just…

"No, no, no…"

The eyes of the other presidential busts staring out from the side of the mountain ahead each glowed brightly for a moment before projecting out glowing bolts of energy, striking incoming Allied forces in the woods with such force that their targets were instantly vaporized. Philips could only watch in shock as the advancing armor and men began to fall back away from the beams shooting out from the mountain, as his thought processes were replaced with sheer bewilderment. This…this is what Ackerman had secretly installed during the renovations? No wonder they had done all those ridiculous education cuts…

"_High-power energy defence weapons detected in enemy installation._" He heard a voice chatter on his radio.

"Well, no shit." He muttered.

"_Friendly forces advised to take cover. Insertion teams inbound to disable monument weapons..."_

"Better get their asses moving…" he said as the path began to head into deeper forest. Moments before they could enter full cover, one of the Canadians suddenly collapsed to the floor as his head began to bleed profusely. Spinning around, Philips laid down his NV scope and looked into the nearby trees, hoping to pinpoint any tell-tale sign of snipers. Come on, come on…

"Fire in the hole!"

Diving for cover as a frag grenade came bouncing out from the undergrowth, Philips felt the sound of the detonation ring in his ears as it exploded near the side of the Athena platform. Automatic gunfire rang out as figures appeared in the shrubs by the road—raising their shields, the Peacekeepers responded with automatic shotgun fire as the bullets bounced against their steel protection. Spinning around, Philips returned fire against their ambushers—looked like militia in National Guard gear. One by one, they feel to the ground, riddled with rounds and buckshot—lowering their shields, the Peacekeepers casually reloaded as the Mexicans made sure they were dead.

"Must be hard for you." One of Canadians turned to him, lifting his visor for a moment.

"Just want to get it over with." Philips sighed, as they continued forwards. Priority now was finding a good spot for the Athena, he supposed.

As they moved through the forest road, the ground gently shook under his feet as he glimpsed further Athena beams come down from the sky ahead, followed by the pounding of tank guns. And all the while, he supposed, Nippy was laughing as he burnt through Hollywood. Damn Ackerman had a lot to answer for. If the country ever got out of this, they'd have to make sure no more loons like him got into office…

They finally reached another section of road overlooking a less forested piece of the park, dotted with the smokestacks of wrecked Grizzlies as units of Guardians advanced, supported by Athenas and conventional artillery behind them. He glimpsed a Nighthawk positioned over the enemy base at the foot of the mountain, before the eyes on the busts finally went dim. Thank god. Now, all that remained was finding that bastard…

"_Target spotted heading for helipad. Troops converge…_"

"With pleasure." Philips uttered. "Knew I should've voted for Carter…"


	33. Chapter XXIX: Yuzhny Island

_Excerpt from Pravda, 20__th__ May 1974:_

_Advances on all fronts, comrades! That is the declaration released by the Party today and it shall remain the phrase that summarises our strategy against the enemy still defiling our land. Our armored divisions push enemy stragglers out of cities and towns in the north, while brave partisan groups see to it that they have not a moment where they are not feeling the wrath of the Soviet people. In an address to the military command circles within the Kremlin last evening, the Premier declared that there shall not be a moment of rest within its walls until the last Nipponese invader is culled. _

_The current focus of our noble military has declared to be on clearing out the enemy bases within the Arctic. Bases set up in decades past under the pretence of scientific research or fishing that have now had their treacherous purpose revealed will be swept aside by the hammer of our unstoppable navy. Though the treacherous Japanese feel they rule the waves, it is a guarantee that they will think otherwise when the oceans run red!_

"We are coming within range of the enemy installation, comrade captain."

"Excellent. Prep the launchers…and make sure we have a good view of the results."

Slicing through the dark blue Arctic waters, the _Slava_-class missile Dreadnought _Kalinin _angled her primary missile tubes into position as the shoreline of Yuzhny Island, one of the main landmasses of the Novaya Zemlya archipelago, came into view on the horizon ahead. To the sides of the mighty vessel were several other Dreadnoughts and escorts of _Skaty_-class 'Stingray' Tesla-powered gunboats. MiG aircraft screamed overhead as aerial escort, launched from retaken airbases on the northern Russian coast behind them, and in the waters beneath, Akula submarines kept their sonar operators active as their hulls brushed aside stray lumps of ice in the freezing waters.

One of the remaining Japanese strongholds in the Arctic, one of the staging points from where they had launched their strike into the Soviet Union, awaited them ahead. With Murmansk retaken, the Red Navy could finally consolidate again in the waters she was used to, and sweep the fascist aggressors away. The Japanese had jammed satellite coverage over this region, forcing the taskforce to get in for bombardment. But for the sailors aboard, this was no problem. It merely allowed them the chance to see the enemy while he burnt to a cinder.

On the bridge of the _Kalinin, _Captain Kirill Orav felt his chest swell with anticipation as the Dreadnoughts began to slow down. Through the high-powered binoculars in his hand, he could faintly make out the sleek white structures on the rocky, icy shore on the far horizon. It had been in the fifties that the Japanese had quietly claimed land in the Arctic for various reasons that were now obviously trumped-up. Well, Orav thought smugly, it was time for the real tenants to put their foot down on their squatting here.

"Targeting vectors plotted in?" he turned his head to the gunnery station. Sometimes the computers were slow, as expected from the 'finest minds of the Science Ministry'. The engineers were often insistent that every officer he put there was clumsy enough to be constantly spilling coffee.

"We have rough co-ordinates, comrade captain, but we have little guarantee of precision, and…"

"It will have to do. Fire at will!"

The ship juddered as V-missiles went howling out from the firing tubes, streaking into the sky while leaving black contrails in their wake. Further rockets shot out from the accompanying Dreadnoughts, also rising upward into the clouds dotting the Arctic sky before plunging down towards the enemy base many miles away. The apocalyptic rumble of the explosion was clearly audible on the decks as Orav observed the orange conflagrations from the impact. To be able to deliver so much death from so far away by merely pushing a button…he did not know whether it was glorious or without honor.

"Impacts confirmed." One of the other bridge crewmen reported. "Reloading missile tubes."

"Wait." The navigation officer reported. "We have picked up several enemy vessels, closing in on our starboard bow. Distance, thirty kilometres."

Orav cursed under his breath. Their damn jamming gave them plenty of room to sneak up on them at least…still, at least now it gave him an actual challenge.

"Go to battle stations." He declared. "Prepare to acquire target on enemy vessels. Do we have identification?"

"At least two battleships, with about four cruisers as escorts. Given previous encounters, we should expect submarine support."

"We shall see whose blood the sharks will be drinking today. Prepare to fire!"

Klaxons blared on each deck of the _Kalinin _as she began to change course to match the incoming enemy vessels, appearing now as pinpricks on the horizon alongside far-off icebergs. Orav knew that those damned battleships of theirs were nothing to be trifled with—a good shot from one of their cannons could potentially put a killing blow in any Dreadnought. They had to get in closer, to guarantee lethal hits for themselves. This would be a game in which someone would have to blink first.

"Stingrays moving forward." His First Mate reported as their gunboats began to advance, shooting across the cold ice-dotted waters. Orav had seen pictures of enemy seamen in waters after Stingray gunboats had turned their weapons on them…like throwing fish in boiling water. He sometimes wondered, what great naval heroes of the Union who had taken the _Aurora_ or _Potemkin _would think of the weapons they were using now.

"Incoming!"

Orav had barely enough time to glimpse the flash of railgun fire on the horizon before one of the gunboats was blasted out of the water in a burst of water and heated metal. A geyser of water then erupted by the bow as another shell barely missed, showering the poor hands there with freezing Arctic surf. He glimpsed one of the other Dreadnoughts, the _Reznov, _suddenly sporting a fire on it's own bow, worryingly close to the foremost missile firing tube. As usual, the shipbuilders of the Union had built her vessels to be as tough as anything on the seas, but he knew those Japanese weapons would be putting their work to the ultimate test.

"We have target?" he turned to gunnery.

"Jamming is not helping, comrade, but we can…"

"We can not wait any further. Missiles, away!"

Again the _Kalinin _shook as another volley of V4 missiles shot away, roaring upwards as Orav crossed his fingers that they would hit true. Dozens of missile contrails streaked across the sky as exhaust smoke from the launchers engulfed the decks of their ships. He knew that they could achieve a greater rate of fire if they sent the launchers into overdrive, but the hydraulic stress of that would not be well for the ship, and he was not willing to take that risk here and now.

"We have impacts!"

He brought his binoculars to his eyes again as flashes from the missile impacts again lit up on the horizon—he glimpsed at least one of the battleships billowing smoke, but with the others it was hard to tell. Sweat began to pour down the back of his neck as he hoped that the Nipponese enemy wasn't as crippled as he'd hoped, using their uncertainty to get into a better firing position.

"We have confirmed hits on at least two of their battleships. Most probably crippled." One of the crewmen looked up from his screen.

"Bring us ahead, three-quarters engine power." Orav declared. "Reload tubes, and prepare to fire at will…"

"Comrade captain…one enemy battleship, still active!"

"Have crew brace for possible impact." Orav quickly snapped, moments before railguns on the horizon screamed again. The _Kalinin _then shook again as the nearby _Reznov _finally erupted in flame as enemy shells cut through her forecastle, presumably detonating within her munitions storage. Flaming debris rained down onto the freezing waters, causing steam to engulf the sinking, burning husk of the ship as well as smoke. Uttering quiet condolences for the hands on her, Orav turned back to the viewports in front of him as the enemy vessels drew closer, close enough for him to be able to clearly distinguish them now. It was time to avenge the comrades who had fell today, preferably with lots and lots of blazing rockets.

"Escorts are engaging."

Ahead, the Tesla gunboats had entered weapons range, coils erupting with streams of electrical energy that surged over the water and crackled against the hulls of enemy cruisers. The high-temperature bolts began to melt through the outer layers of their hulls, sending charge upwards onto their decks to fry any poor soul unfortunate enough to be on them. Changing their course, the cruisers fired off torpedoes, but the gunboats were already shooting off through the waves to fire from a different angle.

Another scream of a railgun battery, and another one of the Stingrays was blown into oblivion. At least those comrades were sacrificing themselves to turn the heads of the enemy, Orav thought, as the missile tubes were reloaded.

"We have targeting?" he said quietly.

"Affirmative."

"Let them have it."

Once more the vessel shook with missile launchers, sending V4s low to the enemy battleships up ahead. Railgun turrets turned and swivelled towards them, charging up to spit out magnetically accelerated superheated slugs, before the missiles slammed down on the decks, tearing down through the sleek white hull. Fires erupted as more came in from the remaining Dreadnought, sending fuel and debris spilling out into the water.

"Confirmed hits." The gunnery officer smiled. "Wait…cruisers changing course to match our vector."

"They're probably going for the escorts. Prepare to target their bridges."

"Affirmative…wait, sonar's picking up small contacts below!"

Submarine escorts. Of course. He had forgotten about those. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Orav turned to his mate.

"Have depth charges ready and prepare to evacuate lower decks if need be."

"Contact is increasing speed—possible suicide run!" A panicked cry rang out.

"Depth charges away!"

Geysers of cold icy water burst out as depth charges were spat over the side of the Dreadnought—but this did not deter the mini-sub shooting towards her keel under the water at full speed. Several excruciating moments passed before Orav felt the vessel shake violently, followed by the pained sounds of tearing metal and alarms blaring. If those cowards were going to bring down his vessel today, then he fully intended to go down with her.

"Damage report?"

"Possible rupture, comrade captain, but engineers report they may be able to contain the leak with bulkhead doors…"

"They'd better damn well do so." He said through gritted teeth, as the other Dreadnoughts fired off their missiles towards the enemy cruises. "Target the land installation and prepare to fire."

"Comrade captain?"

"We shall do our duty to the last." He declared. "Besides, what are you afraid of, boy? Getting a little bit wet?"


	34. Chapter XXX: Tiksi

_Haiku composed by Imperial Japanese military commander Shinzo Nagama:_

_Mighty King Oni_

_Casts wrath upon the Emperor's enemies_

_Divine beams of destruction_

Kiryu Yasaka felt some semblance of life surge through his body, inside the shell of metal and pulsing electronics around him. Code and data flowed through his skull via neural intakes, which he digested and absorbed without emotion. He remembered vaguely an existence before this one, when he lived around air and flesh. But now, he accepted his existence as an instrument of the Emperor's divine will. His mind, combined with that of an unerring AI inside this invincible shell, was to focus only on the destruction of whatever was deemed an affront to the Empire of the Rising Sun. All feeling to the contrary had been scrubbed out by the constant stream of numbers.

DOWNLOADING UPDATED COMBAT PARAMETERS

DEFEND GARRISONED AREA DESIGNATED 'TISKI'

RECOMMENDED COURSE OF ACTION: CRUSH KILL DESTROY

He felt the AI speak to him. The minds of man and machine, combined, were unstoppable. He felt his will flow through the systems and gears of this glorious avatar of Japan's might. How he willed it to move, it would move. Now, images came in from visual feed. Images of an Arctic town occupied by fellow forces it seemed, knocked into disarray by enemy artillery and rockets. This was unacceptable. He did not quite remember why this town needed protection, or how he had got here. But he knew his purpose.

VISUAL FEED DETECTS APPROACHING ENEMY ASSETS

87 DEGREES, RANGE 6.7

ENEMY IDENTIFICATION: T-5V 'HAMMER' TANK x3

ENEMY THREAT EVALUATION: **PATHETIC**

"_All units!_" He felt the somewhat unfamiliar sound of a human voice come in over the comm system. A rough and cringing sound next to the pure data of an AI. "_This is Colonel Kobayashi! The enemy has us surrounded and outnumbered! We fight to the last man, for the Emperor's glory! Do you acknowledge?_"

"By your command." Kiryu uttered simply, his voice hoarse and throat dry from inactivity. He did not concern himself much with the high-pitched shouting of his commander. He was already digesting the highlighted location of enemy tanks on the visual feed, moving into the outer streets of the town as gunships hung overhead. With the help of the AI, he began to upload targeting data and watched as status indicators displayed the condition of the charging power cells. Feeling the power of the Oni in his very fibre, he willed it to moved forward for a better target window.

INCOMING ENEMY PROJECTILES DETECTED

HIGH-EXPLOSIVE ARTILLERY ORDNANCE

THREAT LEVEL: **ZERO PER CENT**

He felt the shell around him vibrate as enemy artillery shells impacted against the gleaming armor of the mech as it moved forward, its feet smashing aside poorly built buildings aside. A futile gesture. Anyone with the slightest sense to logic would see the uselessness of engaging Japan's finest war machines.

WEAPONS FULLY CHARGED

CALCULATING PROBABLE OUTCOME: **THE DESTRUCTION OF ANY AND ALL RUSSIAN COMMUNISTS**

Glorious beams of energy shot out from the projectors built into the 'head' of the mech, impacting right into the targeted enemy tank unit. As predicated, the searing rays dissolved their armor in moments, scattering molten metal in a wide radius. Ammunition and fuel detonated microseconds later, creating a conflagration that consumed that particular throughway. A most satisfying outcome.

The Oni shook again as enemy gunships buzzed overhead like flies, spraying down missiles and machinegun fire. Nothing but superficial damage. Ignoring the pests, he willed again the machine to advance, smashing through an apartment block and cracking the tarmac of the streets beneath. His visual sensors detected friendly troops inside a nearby structure, about to be overrun by charging Russian infantry. They fired away, before their ammunition seemingly exhausted itself. With that, they produced their blades, ignited them, and plunged them into their stomachs. Enough to let the enemy stare up in awe and terror as the mech advanced towards them.

ENEMY INFANTRY DETECTED

CALCULATING INTENT: DAMAGE TO THIS UNIT

EVALUATION OF ENEMY: **SEVERELY DELUDED**

Again, the Oni's divine beams lashed out as his mind willed them to do so. There was no need to acquire targets. Wherever they hit, enemy soldiers were vaporized into fine dust. What survivors there were, cowering under stones and rubble, were crushed as he brought down the feet onto wherever they hid. Within him, he felt a spark of emotion—pleasure. It was surprisingly gratifying.

TRACKING ENEMY 'BULLFROG' ANTI-AIR UNIT IN IMMEDIATE VICINITY

RANGE NOT OPTIMAL FOR USE OF PRIMARY WEAPONS

SUGGEST PHYSICAL ATTACK: **IMMEDIATE TERMINATION**

That sounded to Kiryu like it would also be pleasurable. Watching through the visual feed projecting right to his eyes, he moved the limbs of the Oni like they were his own, reaching down to pick up an enemy transport vehicle moving in the street below. He inspected the primitive vehicle for a movement, before he increased the pressure of the 'fingers', watching it crumple like it was made of paper. Tossing aside the wreck, he noted that further enemy forces were advancing into the town—he did not evaluate victory as likely. No matter. Merely attaining an acceptable kill ratio would suffice.

DETECTING UNIT OF T-666 'APOCALYPSE' TANKS APPROACHING

EVALUATING THREAT LEVEL: HIGHER THAN AVERAGE

RECOMMEDED COURSE OF ACTION: **EXTERMINATE EXTERMINATE**

The shell again shook as shells boomed out from the barrels of enemy superheavy tanks advancing ahead. Striking against the forward armor, they briefly engulfed the Oni in flame and smoke, as Kiryu began to register damage data on his visual feed. It seemed that most of his friendly forces had fallen. Destruction seemed likely. He felt surprised at his own lack of self-concern. But it hardly mattered now.

Gathering the strength of the Oni, he lowered it's center of gravity before charging forward like a raging bull, weakened structures collapsing as the ground shook. Rushing through the city streets, buckling the road under huge feet, the mech came slamming into the target tanks, smashing them aside with it's sheer mass. Spinning around, he reached down and picked up one of the surviving units as it tried to back up, not hesitating in ripping it apart with the metallic claws of the mighty machine.

More enemy projectiles came in. Tactical ballistic missiles, it seemed. Alarms began to ring as he felt the impact. The flow of data began to slow as several systems registered as crippled. Nevertheless, he felt the strength of the machine for the last time, and digested the position of the enemies now surrounding him. He would see that they would appreciate the Emperor's defiance before he fell.


	35. Chapter XXXI: Davao

_Allied Intelligence dispatch to Field Marshal Bingham, 25__th__ May 1974:_

_I regret to inform you that reconstruction of our strategic Chronosphere network in Europe is still underway after its destruction by the Soviets during their push last year. We have some limited chromosphere capability via our Australian facility, although given the strategic state of matters it is not advised it be used for strategic operations just yet. The Americans are requesting we use it to aid in supplying their defence of California; however, given Canadian and Mexican reinforcements there, I would recommend a different approach. _

_You will be aware of how it was through Soviet arms and supplies that Cuba was absorbed into the communist block. I thereby propose we begin using what chrono-capability we have to begin aiding partisan and resistance groups in the Japanese Empire to cause instability therein. Our agents have already managed to establish connections with certain groups and individuals, such as the famed partisan leader Kim Jong-Il in the Korean peninsula. With your permission, we can begin covert support immediately. _

The jungle was hot and humid, with anything from scorpions to booby traps hidden away in the thick undergrowth. One could never be sure if a mosquito or a Japanese drone was buzzing overhead, ready to give you malaria or bring down fire from the air. But for Juan Hizon, the jungle had been his home for years. He had learned to adapt to every facet of it, becoming part of it as much as any bird or insect lurking amidst the trees and branches. Sometimes, it seemed like madness, living in mud and ferns against a ruthless enemy with not a shred of mercy. But he had already sworn himself to the Philippine Resistance. And he was not going to change his ways until he was dead or until his side overcame.

Around him, fellow men of the Resistance emerged from the entrance to the tunnel network they had created under the jungle, from which they could happily lay ambushes against Japanese patrols fool enough to try and seek them out. They bore a diverse assortment of weapons, from old submachineguns dating back from the 1940s to stolen Japanese weapons, modified to accept more conventional ammunition. Their faces were sullied from dirt and scars, and they wore whatever had come to hand, from rags to stolen Imperial body armor painted with camouflage patterns. They had little to match the enemy with, other than sheer determination.

He remembered the struggle that had brought them here. Japan had moved against the Philippines almost as soon as they destroyed Pearl Harbor, the move that won them the Pacific. American forces had long been redeployed to Europe to ward off the Soviets there. Nevertheless, the Philippine Army fought on, bogging down the Japanese efforts to occupy the islands, but it was eventually scattered into guerrilla groups. Soon, the Japanese began to almost relish the efforts to resist, as it began bringing in frightening new technologies to test out against the partisans. Their reprisals became ever more brutal, wiping out whole villages for the deaths of single soldiers. And while the rest of the world focused on the standoff between the Allies and the Soviets, the Philippine people—as well as all the other people under the yoke of the Empire of the Rising Sun—remained alone.

Until now. Not long ago, Hizon and his group had been contacted by a strange man dressed as a local peasant, although his mannerisms betrayed his masquerade. He gave them instructions to arrive at a specific clearing at a specific time on this day, without fail. Perhaps it was a Japanese trap. But with so little success for so long, they had agreed that taking the chance was worth it.

"This is it…"

He pushed away some vines to reveal the clearing in question. He motioned to the partisans around him, indicating for them to surround the clearing while remaining in cover. Almost invisible in the undergrowth, they silently took their positions while keeping their camo-painted weapons ready.

Hizon raised his eyebrows in surprise as a vortex of blue energy began to materialize in the center of the clearing. Leaves were blown up by wind as a definite shape began to appear in the center of the light—a moment later, it subsided, leaving what looked like several containers lying in the middle of the clearing. An expression of sheer disbelief remained on his face for a good minute. As far as he could tell, it could only be sorcery.

"Careful." Hizon uttered as he moved carefully out into the open. Gingerly grabbing one of the containers, he carefully opened it—and again he stared in shock as he found what appeared to be a Javelin missile launcher within, complete with manual in Filipino. The others quickly moved out, opening the remainder of the boxes. Heavy-duty sniper rifles, advanced assault rifles, grenades, communications equipment…it was almost as if God himself was now on their side.

"We have friends after all." One of the fighters grinned as he opened a smaller container, producing a strange-looking thing—like a bulky pistol, but with some sort of lens in place of a barrel. It looked more like a strange camera than a weapon.

"Let me see that." Hizon huffed, taking the thing and a document that came with it. The first thing he noticed was a picture of a Japanese _Shogun _battleship moored by the waterfront of Davao—a city not far from here, and now used by the Japanese as a naval base and shipping hub. A message on the paper instructed him to use the 'designator', as it called it, on the battleship from a safe distance, and then to cause damage to the Japanese base there. How? He thought blankly. Davao was hardly a city the Nipponese bastards held lightly. Still, he thought, if their new allies could make weapons just appear out of nowhere, he supposed he trusted them enough to carry out a task as this.

"What now?" someone nearby uttered.

"We go to Davao." Hizon uttered. "They want us to attack the docks."

"What? That's suicide!"

"If we ever had a chance of hurting the Nipponese, now is the time." He said, pocketing the designator. "Grab what weapons you can carry and move out. Better to die gloriously than to live in this jungle like rats."

Grabbing what they could from the pile and hiding it all under their rags, the group began to move out through the jungle in the direction of Davao, gradually adjusting their clothes to make themselves look more like simple peasants. After so long, they had become masters of disguise and concealment. Some boasted of smuggling whole batches of rockets past Japanese patrols while disguised as women. Hizon didn't doubt them.

Eventually, they emerged from the trees onto a simple road near the shoreline of the Davao Gulf, with the city itself visible across the water ahead. He could see the shining towers of the city center like the ones in Tokyo, covered in neon Japanese characters. He could also see sprawls of slums to the edges of the city, as if in shame of the larger buildings towering over all. Japanese settlers residing here would get the grander homes, he knew, as well as any Philippine people willing to sacrifice their identity of favor of becoming 'Little Nipponese', all in line with Emperor Yoshiro's 'East Asian Solidarity Programme'. The rest lived in squalor, to be exploited by Zaibatsu given Imperial mandate to use the human and natural resources of these lands for the glory of the Empire.

Drawing closer, he could make out the sleek shapes of the Japanese naval structures, and the target battleship. In the past, he had heard, the Empire would send out the occasional trade shipments to both communist and allied nations to maintain the illusion of neutrality from ports as these. His eyes briefly glanced upward, looking out from under the sedge hat he as wearing to look out for any Imperial drones or helicopters patrolling the skies above, looking down on their domain. By now they were passing clusters of old fisherman's shacks—many places around here were becoming increasingly empty as the Japanese conscripted people to serve as auxiliaries for their armies. He didn't think their little attack on Russia was going so well.

"Okay, stop here…"

As they neared the city waterfront, he paused, carefully looking around. In addition to drones, local Philippine auxiliaries would sometimes volunteer to patrol. People were quick to judge them traitors, but Hizon wondered if they were really in support of Yoshiro's empire of if they were just trying to find some good income in these trying times.

"Are you sure about this?" one of the fighters uttered.

"Nothing is ever sure in this world." Hizon replied simply, as he produced the 'designator' and pressed a button as the instructions had showed. A screen on the back lit up, showing a zoomed-in image of the battleship ahead. Hizon gently aligned the crosshairs on the image with the ship, and then carefully pulled the trigger. The lens at the front projected forward a thin blue beam, which stayed beamed onto the floating giant. For a moment Hizon was disappointed. With the magic trick from earlier, he was half-expecting this little thing to blow up the ship with a single shot.

Then, a light came from above, and then a huge pulsing blue beam shot down from the heavens, striking the battleship with a white flash. Hizon felt the air around him suddenly turn cold as he shielded his eyes—when he lowered his hand, he could see the battleship encased in ice, and the naval docks around likewise frozen solid. The water around that had also turned into ice sheet, making it look completely incongruous with the tropical surroundings. Again, he looked stunned, before throwing his head back and laughing. Oh, these people and their magic tricks…

"Now!"

He snapped back into action as the fighters around him whipped out their weapons, diving for cover. Three of them armed with rocket launchers aimed towards the frozen battleship and fired, sending warheads streaking across the water and slamming into it—the ice shattered, and so did the hull, leaving Hizon with a wide grin at the sight. For a long time that thing had represented Japan's military might here…now it was time to put an end to that.

"Down with Yoshiro!" he shouted, as more rockets shot out towards the frozen naval structures. Smoke billowed and shards of ice rained down across the waterfront as sirens and shouts came from all over the streets of Davao.

"Enough!" he said—strike fast and move, that was the core principle of guerrilla warfare. The designator now seemed to have gone inactive, presumably to prevent possible misuse—with that, he chucked it into the water, as the others again assumed their peasant garb and scattered. In the streets, Japanese troops and vehicles were being deployed, shouting about honorless cowards shying from real battle. However, the eyes of the people within were turning to the burning docks, seeing for the first time the vulnerability of the seemingly almighty Imperial occupiers. God willing, Hizon thought as he slipped into one of the slums, all of East Asia would soon wake up.


End file.
